SPECIAL    EDITION 


THE  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS 
AND  ALL  AGES 


COPYRIGHT,     1900 


R.     BEVSCHUAG,     PlNX 

ORPHEUS   AND    EURYDICE 


THE) 


LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS 

AND  ALL  AGES 

HISTORY,  CHARACTER,  AND  INCIDENT 


One  Gundrcd  Demi-teintc  Plates  from  Paintings  6y  Ibe  Oforia's  Bc$t  Hrtists 

COMPLETE  IN  TEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  IV 


CHICAGO  PHILADELPHIA  ST.  LOUIS 

E.  R.  DU   MONT 

IQOO 


Copyright,  1899, 
By  ART  LIBRARY  PUBLISHING  CO. 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  E.  R.  DU  MONT 


GREEK  LITERATURE— PERIOD  IV 9 

HISTORY  AND  PHILOSOPHY g 

HERODOTUS 12 

The  Egyptian  King^s  Treasure 14 

Pythius  the  Lydian 17 

The  Battle  of  Marathon 20 

THUCYDIDES 25 

Harmodius  and  Arislogiton 27 

[  The  Sword  and  the  Myrtle} 30 

Pausanias  the  Spartan 30 

The  Character  of  Pericles 35 

Clean's  Victory  at  Sphacteria 36 

Alcibiades  Vindicates  Himself 43 

XENOPHON 48 

How  Xenophon  Became  a  General 50 

The  Ten  Thousand  Reach  the  Sea 53 

Gobryas  the  Assyrian 57 

Araspes  and  Panthea ; 62 

The  Visit  of  Socrates  to  Theodota 69 

The  Choice  of  Hercules 71 

EARLY  GREEK  PHILOSOPHERS 76 

The  Seven  Wise  Men 79 

Knowledge  of  God 80 

The  Golden  Age 80 

The  Symbols  of  Pythagoras So 

The  Golden  Verses  of  Pythagoras 81 

ANACREON 84 

On  His  Lyre 85 

The  Weapon  of  Beauty 85 

Cupid  as  a  Guest 86 

The  Ideal  Portrait 87 

In  Praise  of  Wine 88 

754834 


2  TABI.U   OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GREEK  LITERATURE- PERIOD  IV.  (CONTINUED). 

Plea  for  Drinking 88 

Anacreori's  Dove 89 

The  Grasshopper 90 

Cupid  and  the  Bee 91 

LATIN  LITERATURE— PERIOD  III 92 

SAI.I.UST 95 

Jugurtha  at  Rome 95 

Caius  Marius  Seeks  the  Consulship 99 

CAIUS  Juuus  C^SAR ioi 

Cczsar's  First  Invasion  of  Britain 102 

The  Battle  of  Pharsalia 109 

VIRGII, 112 

Tityrus  and  Meliboeus ..114 

Pollio  .  • "7 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice 119 

Laocoon  and  his  Sons 121 

The  Death  cf  Priam 123 

Dido  on  the  Funeral  Pile 125 

The  Young  Marcellus 129 

The  Descent  of  Avernus 130 

HORACE 131 

To  the  Roman  People 132 

Maecenas,  Patron  and  Friend 134 

His  Daily  Life  in  Rome 134 

Invitation  to  Phyllis 135 

The  Literary  Bore 136 

Horace1  s  Monument 138 

OVID 139 

Niobe 141 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe 147 

Baucis  and  Philemon 150 

TiBur.i«us 155 

Elegy  to  Delia 155 

Sulpicia  on  Cerinthus  Going  to  the  Chase 156 

Cerinthus  to  Sulpicia 157 

PROPERTIUS 158 

The  Image  of  Love 158 

Love's  Dream  Realized 159 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  3 

PAGE 

PERSIAN  LITERATURE— PERIOD  III 160 

KHAKANI 161 

The  Unknown  Beauty 161 

NlZAMI l62 

Ferhad  the  Sculptor 163 

The  Eye  of  Charity 165 

The  Oriental  Alexander 165 

The  World  Beyond 166 

JELAI,EDDIN  RUMI 167 

The  Merchant  and  the  Parrot 168 

The  Destiny  of  Man 170 

The  Fairest  Land 171 

The  Lover's  Death 171 

The  Religion  of  the  Heart 172 

SADI 173 

Proem  to  the  Gulistan 174 

The  King's  Gift  to  the  Dervish 178 

The  Wrestlers 179 

The  Judge's  Transgression 180 

The  Sinner  and  the  Monk 184 

The  Moth  and  the  Flame 185 

King  Toghrul  and  the  Sentinel 186 

ITALIAN  LITERATURE— PERIOD  II 187 

LUIGI  PUI,CI 190 

Orlando  and  the  Giants 191 

The  Villain  Margutte 196 

NICCOLO  MACHIAVEI,I<I 198 

Should  Princes  be  Faithful  to  their  Engagements  ? 200 

The  Rustic  Outwits  the  Devil 202 

The  Credulous  Fool 205 

MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO 206 

Prasildo  and  Tisbina 207 

Rinaldo  Punished  by  Cupid 215 

BAUJASSARE  CASTIGUONE 217 

The  Courtier's  Addresses .  .  218 

LUIGI  DA  PORTO 218 

Love  in  the  Tomb 219 

VlTTORIA  COLONNA 222 

A  Branch  of  the  Vine 223 

Heavenly  Union 223 


4  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ITALIAN   LITERATURE— PERIOD  II.  (CONTINUED). 

MICHEL  ANGELO  BUONARROTI 224 

On  Dante 225 

The  Model  and  the  Statue • 226 

Love  the  Light-giver 226 

Heavenly  and  Earthly  Love 226 

After  the  Death  of  Vilioria  Colonna 227 

Lament  for  Life  Wasted 227 

GIORGIO  VASARI 228 

Buffalmalco  the  Jesting  Painter 228 

BENVENUTO  CELLINI 231 

The  Onion  Stew 232 

Crossing  the  Bridge 238 

GIACOMO  SANNAZARO 239 

Elegy  from  the  Arcadia 239 

King  Alphonso  of  Naples 240 

FRENCH  LITERATURE— PERIOD  III 241 

FRANCIS  1 243 

The  Brightness  of  his  Lady 243 

MARGUERITE  OF  NAVARRE 244 

The  Rejected  Bridegroom 246 

THE  PLEIADE 250 

The  Ruins  of  Rome 253 

The  Winnowers'1  Hymn 255 

The  Lovers'  Prayer  to  Venus ' 255 

April 256 

The  Wreath  of  Roses 258 

The  Rose 258 

To  his  Young  Mistress 259 

Of  his  Lady's  Old  Age 260 

His  Lady's  Death  . 260 

BRANTOME 260 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots  Leaving  France 261 

MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 264 

On  the  Death  of  her  Husband,  Francis  II. 265 

Farewell  to  France 266 

FRANCOIS  DE  MALHERBE 266 

Phyllis  and  Glycera 267 

Consolation  for  a  Daughter's  Death 268 


TABLE;  OF  CONTENTS.  5 

PAGE 

SCANDINAVIAN   LITERATURE— SECTION  II 270 

THE  HEIMSKRINGLA 270 

Gyda,  Eric's  Daughter 271 

The  Bitth  of  Olaf  Tryggvesson 272 

The  Wedding  of  Olaf  Tryggvesson 275 

The  Building  of  the  Long  Serpent 276 

Olaf's  Dog  Vigi 277 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty 278 

SAGA  OF  FRITHIOF  THE  BOLD 279 

Frithiof  and  Ingebore 280 

Fridthjof  Plays  Chess 282 

Ingebore's  Lament 283 

Frithiof  Visits  King  Ring 285 

The  Reconciliation .  288 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE— PEPIOD  III 291 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE 295 

Gold  in  Utopia 297 

WYATTAND  SURREY 301 

To  His  Mistress 302 

The  Address  to  his  Lute. 303 

A  Complaint  by  Night  of  the  Lover  not  Beloved 304 

Love's  Vassal 304 

ROGER  ASCHAM 305 

Fair  Shooting 306 

Two  Wings  better  than  One 307 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 307 

A  Stag  Hunt 309 

An  Arcadian  Love- Letter 310 

Stella 311 

The  Stolen  Kiss 311 

EDMUND  SPENSKR 312 

Alcyon's  Lament  for  Daphne 314 

The  Epithalarnion 317 

The  Faerie  Queene 322 

The  Red  Cross  Knight  and  Una 323 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 325 

English  Valor 328 

1  he  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate  Shepherd 329 


6  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE— PERIOD  III.  (CONTINUED). 

EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMA 330 

Noah's  Flood 332 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 335 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 337 

The  Doom  of  Doctor  Faustus 338 

Hero  and  Leander 340 

Love  at  First  Sight 340 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN »  .  344 

The  Drowned  Lover 345 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 348 

Romeo  and  Juliet 356 

The  Tomb  of  the  Capulets 361 

The  Pound  of  Flesh  .  t 364 

Hamlet  and  Ophelia 371 

Othello  and  Desdemona 374 

Lear  and  Cordelia 379 

Rosalind 382 

Falstaff  and  the  Merry  Wives 385 

SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS 391 

The  Poet  Confers  Immortality 391 

The  Eternal  Summer 392 

The  Happiness  of  True  Love 392 

BEN  JONSON 393 

Sir  Epicure  Mammon 395 

Captain  Bobadil 398 

Ode  to  Himself 399 

To  Celia 400 


'     LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOLUME  IV. 

ARTIST.  PAGE 

ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 1?.  Beyschlag  .  Frontispiece 

ALCIBIADES  AND  ASPASIA F.  A.  Heullant ....  44 

HORACE  AT  TIBUR A.  Leloir 135 

THISBE E.  Paupion 147 

THE  FATE  OF  FERHAD S.  J.  Ferris 164 

VITTORIA  COLONNA J.  J.  Lefebvre   ....  222 

MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS  LEAVING  FRANCE  .  .  S.  J.  Ferris 263 

FRITHIOF  VISITS  KING  RING F.  Leeke 286 

HERO  AND  LEANDER C.  Von  Bodenhausen  .  345 

ROSALIND  AND  THE  DUKE J.  L.G.  Ferris    .   .   .  382 


in  y 
- 1   ] 


1 


GREEK  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  IV.    B.C.  450-350. 
HISTORY  AND   PHILOSOPHY. 


'HILE  the  Hellenic  race  rose  rapidly  to  sublime 
heights  in  epic  and  lyric  poetry,  it  was  slow  in 
developing  prose  literature.  In  primitive  times 
the  inspired  poet  was  the  constant  attendant  of 
priests  and  kings.  He  recited  his  verses  to  atten- 
tive listeners  at  the  courts  of  chiefs  and  tribal  festi- 
vals. He  roused  the  spirits  of  warriors  by  reciting  their 
exploits  and  recalling  the  deeds  of  ancestral  heroes.  He  was 
called  to  give  formal  expression  to  domestic  joys  at  weddings 
and  to  the  lamentations  of  kinsfolk  at  funerals.  The  dac- 
tylic hexameter,  the  oldest  standard  form  of  verse,  was  the 
favorite  mode  of  oracular  response  at  Dodona  and  Delphi. 
The  lawgivers  in  framing  the  earliest  codes  and  constitutions 
used  the  same  form  hallowed  by  religious  associations.  Moral 
teachers,  in  expressing  their  maxims  and  precepts  for  indi- 
vidual conduct,  adopted  the  same  style,  though  later  they 
varied  it  with  the  elegiac  combination  of  hexameters  and 
pentameters.  The  early  philosophers  who  investigated  nature 
and  studied  the  problems  of  mind  committed  their  doctrines 
to  the  same  vehicle.  The  epigrams,  which,  as  their  name 
implies,  were  originally  inscriptions  on  monuments  of  men 
and  events,  appeared  in  the  same  dress ;  even  when  in  later 
times  they  were  used  for  every  variety  of  purpose,  for  satire 
as  well  as  eulogy,  they  preserved  the  same  form.  Whatever 
was  intended  for  general  circulation  was  put  into  this  metri- 
cal form. 

But  the  introduction  and  diffusion  of  the  art  of  writing, 

9 


10  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

and  the  invention  of  material  suitable  for  its  ready  use, 
enabled  some  leaders  of  public  thought  to  dispense  with  the 
metrical  art  as  no  longer  essential.  Chroniclers  and  annalists, 
moralists  and  philosophers,  were  among  the  first  to  use  the 
irregular  prose  instead  of  the  dignified  metre.  When  the 
Persian  War  stirred  the  patriotic  genius  of  the  Hellenic  race 
not  only  to  resist  the  threatened  destruction,  but  to  record 
and  celebrate  the  triumph  of  liberty  over  organized  despotism, 
the  victories  were  rehearsed  in  odes  and  dramas.  But  it  also 
roused  the  slumbering  curiosity  concerning  the  distant  regions 
whence  the  terrible  yet  civilized  Barbarians  had  issued.  Sev- 
eral inhabitants  of  the  Greek  cities  of  the  Asiatic  coast,  who 
had  been  spectators  rather  than  participants  in  the  momentous 
conflict,  undertook  to  enlighten  their  kinsmen  in  Hellas. 
The  greatest  of  these  and  the  one  who  has  obtained  the  sole 
glory  of  the  work  was  Herodotus  of  Halicarnassus.  A  Dorian 
by  birth,  he  had  acquired  the  more  alert  spirit  of  the  lonians, 
in  whose  dialect  his  history  is  written.  The  larger  part  of 
his  work  is  the  record  of  his  extensive  travels  through  the 
world  then  known  to  the  Greeks,  from  Ecbatana  in  Persia  to 
Sicily  and  Italy,  where  he  had  found  a  home.  Whatever  may 
be  the  errors  in  his  recital,  they  can  readily  be  accounted  for 
by  his  being  deceived  by  interpreters  and  guides.  But  when- 
ever he  writes  from  direct  observation  his  accuracy  may  be 
depended  upon  and  has  often  been  confirmed  by  modern  ex- 
plorers. His  work,  though  in  prose,  lias  features  of  the  epic 
and  the  drama  in  his  portrayal  of  the  prodigious  efforts  of  the 
Persian  kings  and  the  catastrophe  of  their  ultimate  defeat  at 
Plataea  and  Salamis. 

The  gossipy  traveler  Herodotus  was  soon  followed  by  the 
philosophic  historian  Thucydides,  who  found  in  the  internal 
struggles  of  the  Hellenic  people  an  adequate  subject  for  his 
superior  powers  of  analysis  of  the  causes  of  events.  Himself 
a  participant  in  the  Peloponnesian  War,  he  early  recognized 
its  importance,  and  when  driven  into  exile  by  the  Athenians, 
devoted  his  time  to  relating  its  course.  His  impartiality  has 
been  generally  recognized,  and  his  genius  in  depicting  the 
characters  of  the  leaders  and  in  tracing  the  progress  of  events 
has  called  forth  unqualified  admiration  in  all  ages.  His  style 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  II 

is  generally  concise  and  nervous,  but  sometimes  obscure, 
especially  in  the  speeches,  which  occupy  about  one-fourth  of 
the  whole  work. 

Xenophon,  also  an  Athenian,  took  up  the  tale  where  Thu- 
cydides  had  left  off,  but  was  unequal  to  its  accomplishment 
in  the  same  philosophical  spirit.  He  was  an  admirer  of  the 
Spartans  and  joined  the  army  of  his  country's  enemies.  A 
skillful  warrior  and  an  able  commander,  he  was  also  a  versatile 
writer,  and  has  left  numerous  treatises  on  social  and  economic 
topics  besides  his  "  Hellenica,"  in  which  he  brought  the 
history  of  Greece  down  to  the  battle  of  Mantinea,  362  B.C., 
and  his  masterly  narrative  of  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thou- 
sand in  the  "Anabasis."  His  name  is  closely  connected 
with  that  of  his  great  teacher  Socrates,  and  his  record  of 
the  conversations  of  that  philosopher  are  probably  more  true 
to  the  fact  than  the  idealized  dialogues  due  to  the  more  pro- 
found Plato. 

After  giving  specimens  of  the  different  styles  of  these 
great  model  historians,  we  turn  back  to  the  rise  of  philosophy 
in  the  sixth  century  before  Christ.  Though  the  literature  of 
that  time  is  scant,  it  shows  the  beginning  of  prose,  and  is 
necessary  to  be  considered  for  proper  understanding  of  its 
later  development.  The  early  philosophers  are  interesting  as 
the  first  propounders  of  cosmic  and  physical  theories  which 
have  swayed  the  minds  of  men  in  successive  ages,  and  to 
which  the  leading  scientists  of  the  nineteenth  century  have 
returned.  Many  of  those  early  sages  are  also  interesting  in 
their  own  characters  as  far  as  these  can  be  discovered  through 
the  distance  of  many  centuries.  Some  taught  a  more  spirit- 
ual philosophy,  and  in  the  midst  of  polytheism  asserted  the 
unity  of  the  Deity.  Others  contented  themselves  with  fram- 
ing systems  of  morality  and  setting  forth  the  beauty  of  virtue 
and  the  laws  of  conduct. 


HERODOTUS. 

CiCERO  called  Herodotus  "The  Father 
of  History,"  for,  though  there  were  an- 
nalists before  his  time,  he  was  the  first 
to  give  full  and  vivid  delineation  of  the  men  and  manners  of  his 
age.  Herodotus  was  born  at  the  Dorian  city  of  Halicarnassus, 
in  Asia  Minor,  B.  c.  484.  The  records  of  his  life  are  not  only 
scant,  but  dubious.  He  opposed  the  despotic  government  of 
the  tyrant  I/ygdamis,  and  joined  in  his  expulsion,  but  soon 
afterward  went  to  Athens,  where  he  became  the  intimate 
friend  of  Sophocles.  Thence  he  migrated  to  Southern  Italy, 
having  joined  the  sons  of  freedom,  who  founded  Thurii,  and 
became  the  pioneers  of  civilization  in  that  country.  With  his 
Athenian  friends  he  lived  at  Thurii,  and  died  there  about 
B.C.  408.  From  his  extensive  travel  and  keen  observation  he 
was  destined  to  enlighten  and  elevate  Hellas.  He  had  trav- 
ersed Greece,  Egypt  and  Scythia,  as  far  as  the  river  Tana'is 
or  Don.  In  Asia  he  had  visited  Tyre,  Babylon,  and  Ecbatana, 
the  summer  resort  of  the  Persian  kings. 

The  monumental  work  giving  the  record  of  his  observa- 
tions Herodotus  called  "Historiai"  (Researches),  and  hence 
our  word  "history."  The  division  into  nine  books,  bearing 
the  names  of  the  nine  Muses,  was  not  made  by  Herodotus 
himself,  but  by  the  Alexandrian  grammarians.  No  other 
historian  has  traversed  so  wide  a  field.  His  chief  aim  was  to 
exhibit  in  general  the  wars  of  Greeks  with  Barbarians — that  is 
to  say,  with  all  who  were  not  Greeks — and  in  particular  the 
struggle  between  Greeks  and  Persians.  The  history  proper, 
covering  a  period  of  sixty-eight  years,  shows  how  the  Greeks, 
at  first  feeble  and  divided,  and  unable  to  cope  with  the  vast 
hordes  of  Asia,  became  a  united  people,  strove,  and  finally  cou- 

12 


GRKEK    LITERATURE.  13 

quered  in  the  ever-memorable  victories  of  Marathon,  Salamis, 
and  Platoea.  There  are  numerous  digressions  for  the  purpose 
of  describing  the  peoples  and  countries  the  author  had 
investigated  ;  but  these  digressions  are  only  so  many  pleasing 
episodes  in  the  main  narrative.  The  story  culminates  in  the 
final  triumph  of  free  thought  and  liberal  culture  over  brute 
force  and  systematic  despotism. 

In  the  writings  of  Herodotus  there  is  no  pretension  to  art, 
yet  the  critic  is  compelled  to  admire  his  power  of  combining 
with  historical  narrative  a  medley  of  mythical  geography, 
natural  history  and  antiquities.  The  style  is  simple,  almost 
garrulous,  yet  animated.  There  is  abundance  of  description 
and  dialogue,  expressed  in  pure  and  sweetly-flowing  language. 
In  some  respects  he  is  poetic  and  dramatical,  for  story-telling 
was  not  yet  widely  separated  from  the  epic  narrative,  in 
which  public  life  and  actions  had  hitherto  been  chiefly  de- 
scribed. Herodotus  gives  us  the  facts  as  they  appeared  to 
him.  Parts  of  his  story,  which  can  be  authenticated,  are 
often  mixed  up  with  wild  legends,  acceptable  to  a  lively,  sus- 
ceptible and  restless  people,  inquisitive  and  credulous,  ever 
on  the  outlook  for  excitement  and  novelty.  Among  them 
philosophy  was  still  young,  though  the  fine  arts  had  reached 
the  zenith  of  excellence.  They  heard  with  delight  of  omens 
and  dreams,  and  warnings  from  the  dead ;  of  giants  and 
dwarfs ;  of  strange  birds  and  beasts.  They  were  also  full  of 
patriotic  enthusiasm,  and  were  deeply  interested  in  the  narra- 
tive of  their  recent  achievements.  The  story  of  the  fierce 
conflict  appealed  to  their  passions  and  love  of  honor  and 
kindred.  They  saw  in  it  the  might  of  wealth  and  power 
matched  against  the  greater  might  of  virtue  and  courage. 

Throughout  the  whole  work  there  runs  a  deeply  religious 
idea :  a  firm  belief  in  a  Divine  power,  independent  of  nature 
and  man.  The  piety  of  Herodotus  was  tinged  with  super- 
stition. At  times  he  fears  giving  offence  to  the  gods,  and  will 
not  rehearse  what  he  has  heard  about  them  and  their  inter- 
ference in  human  affairs ;  at  other  times  he  feels  compelled  to 
speak  out,  and  begs  forgiveness  from  gods  and  heroes. 

The  history,  beginning  with  mythical  times,  soon  passes 
on  to  King  Croesus  of  Lydia  ;  describes  the  conquest  of  Lydia 


14  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

by  Cyrus ;  the  rise  of  the  Persian  monarchy ;  the  Egyptian 
expedition  of  Cambyses  ;  the  Scythian  expedition  of  Darius ; 
the  repeated  invasions  of  Greece  by  the  hosts  under  Mar- 
donius  and  Xerxes ;  the  glorious  victories  of  Marathon, 
Salamis  and  Plataea ;  and  so  on  to  the  rise  of  Athens  to  naval 
supremacy,  and  the  time  when  the  Greeks  took  Sestos,  and 
returned  home  carrying  with  them  vast  hoards  of  money  and 
fragments  of  the  bridge  of  boats  built  by  Xerxes  across  the 
Hellespont. 

THE  EGYPTIAN  KING'S  TREASURE. 

KING  RHAMPSINITUS  was  possessed  of  great  riches  in 
silver, — indeed  to  such  an  amount,  that  none  of  the  princes, 
his  successors,  surpassed  or  even  equalled  his  wealth.  For  the 
better  custody  of  this  money,  he  proposed  to  build  a  vast 
chamber  of  hewn  stone,  one  side  of  which  was  to  form  a  part 
of  the  outer  wall  of  his  palace.  The  builder,  therefore,  hav- 
ing designs  upon  the  treasures,  contrived,  as  he  was  making 
the  building,  to  insert  in  this  wall  a  stone,  which  could  easily 
be  removed  from  its  place  by  two  men,  or  even  by  one.  So 
the  chamber  was  finished,  and  the  king's  money  stored  away 
in  it.  Time  passed,  and  the  builder  fell  sick,  when,  finding 
his  end  approaching,  he  called  for  his  two  sons,  and  related 
to  them  the  contrivance  he  had  made  in  the  king's  treasure- 
chamber,  telling  them  it  was  for  their  sakes  he  had  done  it, 
that  so  they  might  always  live  in  affluence.  Then  he  gave 
them  clear  directions  concerning  the  mode  of  removing  the 
stone,  and  communicated  the  measurements,  bidding  them 
carefully  keep  the  secret,  whereby  they  would  be  Comptrollers 
of  the  Royal  Exchequer  so  long  as  they  lived.  Then  the 
father  died,  and  the  sons  were  not  slow  in  setting  to  work ; 
they  went  by  night  to  the  palace,  found  the  stone  in  the  wall 
of  the  building,  and  having  removed  it  with  ease,  plundered 
the  treasury  of  a  round  sum. 

When  the  king  next  paid  a  visit  to  the  apartment,  he  was 
astonished  to  see  that  the  money  was  sunk  in  some  of  the 
vessels  wherein  it  was  stored  away.  Whom  to  accuse,  how- 
ever, he  knew  not,  as  the  seals  were  all  perfect,  and  the 
fastenings  of  the  room  secure.  Still  each  time  that  he  re- 


LITERATURE.  15 

peated  his  visits,  lie  found  that  more  money  was  gone.  The 
thieves  in  truth  never  stopped,  but  plundered  the  treasury 
ever  more  and  more.  At  last  the  king  determined  to  have 
some  traps  made,  and  set  near  the  vessels  which  contained 
his  wealth.  This  was  done,  and  when  the  thieves  came,  as 
usual,  to  the  treasure-chamber,  and  one  of  them  entering 
through  the  aperture,  made  straight  for  the  jars,  suddenly  he 
found  himself  caught  in  one  of  the  traps.  Perceiving  that 
he  was  lost,  he  instantly  called  his  brother,  and  telling  him 
what  had  happened,  entreated  him  to  enter  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible and  cut  off  his  head,  that  when  his  body  should  be  dis- 
covered it  might  not  be  recognized,  which  would  have  the 
effect  of  bringing  ruin  upon  both.  The  other  thief  thought 
the  advice  good,  and  was  persuaded  to  follow  it.  Then,  fitting 
the  stone  into  its  place,  he  went  home,  taking  with  him  his 
brother's  head. 

When  day  dawned,  the  king  came  into  the  room,  and  mar- 
veled greatly  to  see  the  body  of  the  thief  in  the  trap  without  a 
head,  while  the  building  was  still  whole,  and  neither  entrance 
nor  exit  was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  In  this  perplexity  he  com- 
manded the  body  of  the  dead  man  to  be  hung  up  outside  the 
palace  wall,  and  set  a  guard  to  watch  it,  with  orders  that  if 
any  persons  were  seen  weeping  or  lamenting  near  the  place, 
they  should  be  seized  and  brought  before  him.  When  the 
mother  heard  of  this  exposure  of  the  corpse  of  her  son,  she 
took  it  sorely  to  heart,  and  spoke  to  her  surviving  child,  bid- 
ding him  devise  some  plan  or  other  to  get  back  the  body,  and 
threatening,  that  if  he  did  not  exert  himself,  she  would  go 
herself  to  the  king,  and  denounce  him  as  the  robber. 

The  son  said  all  he  could  to  persuade  her  to  let  the  matter 
rest,  but  in  vain  :  she  still  continued  to  trouble  him,  until  at 
last  he  yielded  to  her  importunity,  and  contrived  as  follows : 
Filling  some  skins  with  wine,  he  loaded  them  on  donkeys, 
which  he  drove  before  him  till  he  came  to  the  place  where 
the  guards  were  watching  the  dead  body.  Then  pulling  two 
or  three  of  the  skins  towards  him,  he  untied  some  of  the  necks 
which  dangled  by  the  asses'  sides.  The  wine  poured  freely 
out,  whereupon  he  began  to  beat  his  head,  and  shout  with  all 
his  might,  seeming  not  to  know  which  of  the  donkeys  he 


1 6  LITERATURE   OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

should  turn  to  first.  When  the  guards  saw  the  wine  running, 
delighted  to  profit  by  the  occasion,  they  rushed  one  and  all 
into  the  road,  each  with  some  vessel  or  other,  and  caught  the 
liquor  as  it  was  spilling.  The  driver  pretended  anger,  and 
loaded  them  with  abuse;  whereon  they  did  their  best  to  pacify 
him,  until  at  last  he  appeared  to  soften  and  recover  his  good 
humor,  drove  his  asses  aside  out  of  the  road  and  set  to  work 
to  rearrange  their  burthens ;  meanwhile,  as  he  talked  and 
chatted  with  the  guards,  one  of  them  began  to  rally  him,  and 
make  him  laugh,  whereupon  he  gave  them  one  of  the  skins 
as  a  gift.  They  now  made  up  their  minds  to  sit  down  and 
have  a  drinking-bout  where  they  were,  so  they  begged  him  to 
remain  and  drink  with  them.  Then  the  man  let  himself  be 
persuaded  and  stayed.  As  the  drinking  went  on,  they  grew 
very  friendly  together,  so  presently  he  gave  them  another 
skin,  upon  which  they  drank  so  copiously  that  they  were  all 
overcome  with  the  liquor,  and  growing  drowsy  lay  down  and 
fell  asleep  on  the  spot.  The  thief  waited  till  it  was  the  dead 
of  the  night,  and  then  took  down  the  body  of  his  brother ; 
after  which,  in  mockery,  he  shaved  off  the  right  side  of  all 
the  soldiers'  beards,  and  so  left  them.  Laying  his  brother's 
body  upon  the  asses,  he  carried  it  home  to  his  mother,  having 
thus  accomplished  the  thing  that  she  had  required  of  him. 

When  it  came  to  the  king's  ears  that  the  thief's  body  was 
stolen  away,  he  was  sorely  vexed.  Wishing  therefore,  what- 
ever it  might  cost,  to  catch  the  man  who  had  contrived  the 
trick,  he  had  recourse  (the  priests  said)  to  an  expedient,  which 
I  can  scarcely  credit.  He  sent  his  own  daughter  to  the  com- 
mon stews,  with  orders  to  admit  all  comers,  but  to  require 
every  man  to  tell  her  what  was  the  cleverest  and  wickedest 
thing  he  had  done  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  If  any 
one  in  reply  told  her  the  story  of  the  thief,  she  was  to  lay 
hold  of  him  and  not  allow  him  to  get  away.  The  daughter 
did  as  her  father  willed,  whereon  the  thief,  who  was  well 
aware  of  the  king's  motive,  felt  a  desire  to  outdo  him  in  craft 
and  cunning.  Accordingly  he  contrived  the  following  plan  : 
He  procured  the  corpse  of  a  man  lately  dead,  and  cutting  off 
one  of  the  arms  at  the  shoulder,  put  it  under  his  dress,  and  so 
went  to  the  king's  daughter.  When  she  put  the  question  to 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  17 

him  as  she  had  done  to  all  the  rest,  he  replied,  that  the  wick- 
edest thing  lie  had  ever  done  was  cutting  off  the  head  of  his 
brother  when  he  was  caught  in  a  trap  in  the  king's  treasury, 
and  the  cleverest  was  making  the  guards  drunk  and  carrying 
off  the  body.  As  he  spoke,  the  princess  caught  at  him,  but 
the  thief  took  advantage  of  the  darkness  to  hold  out  to  her 
the  hand  of  the  corpse.  Imagining  it  to.  be  his  own  hand, 
she  seized  and  held  it  fast ;  while  the  thief,  leaving  it  in  her 
grasp,  made  his  escape  by  the  door. 

The  king,  when  word  was  brought  him  of  this  fresh  suc- 
cess, amazed  at  the  sagacity  and  boldness  of  the  man,  sent 
messengers  to  all  the  towns  in  his  dominions  to  proclaim  a 
free  pardon  for  the  thief,  and  to  promise  him  a  rich  reward, 
if  he  came  and  made  himself  known.  The  thief  took  the 
king  at  his  word,  and  came  boldly  into  his  presence ;  where- 
upon Rhampsinitus,  greatly  admiring  him,  and  looking  on 
him.  as  the  most  knowing  of  men,  gave  him  his  daughter  in 
marriage.  "The  Egyptians,"  he  said,  "excelled  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  in  wisdom,  and  this  man  excelled  all  other 
Egyptians. ' ' 

PYTHIUS  THE  LYDIAN. 

Now  there  lived  in  Celsenae  a  certain  Pythius,  the  son  of 
Atys,  a  Lydian.  This  man  entertained  Xerxes  and  his  whole 
army  in  a  most  magnificent  fashion,  offering  at  the  same  time 
to  give  him  a  sum  of  money  for  the  war.  Xerxes,  upon  the 
mention  of  money,  turned  to  the  Persians  who  stood  by  and 
asked  of  them,  "Who  is  this  Pythius,  and  what  wealth  has 
he  that  he  should  venture  on  such  an  offer  as  this?"  They 
answered  him,  "This  is  the  man,  O  King,  who  gave  thy 
father,  Darius,  the  golden  plane-tree,  and  likewise  the  golden 
vine ;  and  he  is  still  the  wealthiest  man  we  know  of  in  all 
the  world,  excepting  thee." 

Xerxes  marvelled  at  these  last  words  ;  and  now  addressing 
Pythius  with  his  own  lips,  he  asked  him  what  the  amount  of 
his  wealth  really  was.  Pythius  answered  as  follows  : 

"  O  King !  I  will  not  hide  this  matter  from  thee,  nor  make 
pretence  that  I  do  not  know  how  rich  I  am  ;  but  as  I  know 
perfectly,  I  will  declare  all  fully  before  thee.  For  when  thy 

IV— 2 


1 8  LITERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

journey  was  noised  abroad  and  I  heard  thou  wert  coining  down 
to  the  Grecian  coast,  straightway,  as  I  wished  to  give  thee  a 
sum  of  money  for  the  war,  I  made  count  of  my  stores,  and 
found  them  to  be  two  thousand  talents  of  silver,  and  of  gold 
four  millions  of  Daric  staters,  wanting  seven  thousand.  All 
this  I  willingly  make  over  to  thee  as  a  gift ;  and  when  it  is 
gone,  my  slaves  and  my  estates  in  land  will  be  wealth  enough 
for  my  wants. ' ' 

This  speech  charmed  Xerxes,  and  he  replied,  "Dear 
Lydian,  since  I  left  Persia  there  is  no  man  but  thee  who  has 
either  desired  to  entertain  my  army,  or  come  forward  of  his  own 
free  will  to  offer  me  a  sum  of  money  for  the  war.  Thou  hast 
done  both  the  one  and  the  other,  feasting  my  troops  magnifi- 
cently, and  now  making  offer  of  a  right  noble  sum.  In 
return,  this  is  what  I  will  bestow  on  thee.  Thou  shalt  be 
my  sworn  friend  from  this  day,  and  the  seven  thousand  staters 
which  are  wanting  to  make  up  thy  four  millions  I  will  supply, 
so  that  the  full  tale  may  be  no  longer  lacking,  and  that  thou 
mayest  owe  the  completion  of  the  round  sum  to  me.  Con- 
tinue to  enjoy  all  that  thou  hast  acquired  hitherto,  and  be  sure 
to  remain  ever  such  as  thou  now  art.  If  thou  dost,  thou  wilt 
not  repent  of  it  so  long  as  thy  life  endures. ' '  When  Xerxes 
had  so  spoken  and  had  made  good  his  promises  to  Pythius,  he 
pressed  forward  upon  his  march 

And  now  when  all  was  prepared— the  bridges  over  the  Hel- 
lespont and  the  works  at  Mount  Athos,  the  breakwaters  about 
the  mouths  of  the  cutting,  which  were  made  to  hinder  the 
surf  from  blocking  up  the  entrances,  and  the  cutting  itself; 
and  when  the  news  came  to  Xerxes  that  this  last  was  com- 
pletely finished — then  at  length  the  host,  having  first  wintered 
at  Sardis,  began  its  march  towards  Abydos,  fully  equipped,  on 
the  first  approach  of  spring.  At  the  moment  of  departure, 
the  sun  suddenly  quitted  his  seat  in  the  heavens  and  disap- 
peared, though  there  were  no  clouds  in  sight,  but  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene.  Day  was  thus  turned  into  night ;  where- 
upon Xexes,  who  saw  and  remarked  the  prodigy,  was  seized 
with  alarm,  and  sending  at  once  for  the  Magians,  inquired  of 
them  the  meaning  of  the  portent.  They  replied — "God  is 
foreshadowing  to  the  Greeks  the  destruction  of  their  cities  j 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  *I9 

for  the  sun  foretells  for  them,  and  the  moon  for  us."  So 
Xerxes,  thus  instructed,  proceeded  on  his  way  with  great 
gladness  of  heart. 

The  army  had  begun  its  march  when  Pythius  the  Lydian, 
affrighted  at  the  heavenly  portent,  and  emboldened  by  his 
gifts,  came  to  Xerxes  and  said — "Grant  me,  O  my  lord !  a 
favor  which  is  to  thee  a  light  matter,  but  to  me  of  vast  ac- 
count." Then  Xerxes,  who  looked  for  nothing  less  than  such 
a  prayer  as  Pythius  in  fact  preferred,  engaged  to  grant  him 
whatever  he  wished,  and  commanded  him  to  tell  his  wish 
freely.  So  Pythius,  full  of  boldness,  went  on  to  say: 

"O  my  lord  !  thy  servant  has  five  sons,  and  it  chances  that 
all  are  called  upon  to  join  thee  in  this  march  against  Greece. 
I  beseech  thee  have  compassion  upon  my  years,  and  let  one 
of  my  sons,  the  eldest,  remain  behind  to  be  my  prop  and  stay, 
and  the  guardian  of  my  wealth.  Take  with  thee  the  other 
four ;  and  when  thou  hast  done  all  that  is  in  thine  heart, 
mayest  thou  come  back  in  safety. ' ' 

But  Xerxes  was  greatly  angered,  and  replied  to  him : 
"Thou  wretch!  darest  thou  speak  to  me  of  thy  son,  when 
I  am  myself  on  the  march  against  Greece,  with  sons  and 
brothers  and  kinsfolk  and  friends?  Thou,  who  art  my  bond- 
slave, and  art  in  duty  bound  to  follow  me  with  all  thy 
household,  not  excepting  thy  wife  !  Know  that  man's  spirit 
dwelleth  in  his  ears,  and  when  it  hears  good  things  straight- 
way it  fills  all  his  body  with  delight,  but  no  sooner  does  it 
hear  the  contrary  than  it  heaves  and  swells  with  passion.  As 
when  thou  didst  good  deeds  and  madest  good  offers  to  me,  thou 
wert  not  able  to  boast  of  having  outdone  the  king  in  bounti- 
fulness,  so  now  when  thou  art  changed  and  grown  impudent, 
thou  shalt  not  receive  all  thy  deserts,  but  less.  For  thyself 
and  four  of  thy  five  sons,  the  entertainment  which  I  had  of 
thee  shall  gain  protection ;  but  as  for  him  to  whom  thou 
clingest  above  the  rest,  the  forfeit  of  his  life  shall  be  thy 
punishment."  Having  thus  spoken,  forthwith  he  commanded 
those  to  whom  such  tasks  were  assigned  to  seek  out  the  eldest 
of  the  sons  of  Pythius,  and  having  cut  his  body  asunder,  to 
place  the  two  halves,  one  on  the  right,  the  other  on  the  left, 
of  the  great  road,  so  that  the  army  might  march  cut  between 


20  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

them.     Then  the  king's  orders  were  obeyed,  and  the  army 
marched  out  between  the  two  halves  of  the  carcass. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MARATHON. 

THE  Persians,  having  brought  Eretria  into  subjection,  after 
waiting  a  few  days,  made  sail  for  Attica,  greatly  straitening 
the  Athenians  as  they  approached,  and  thinking  to  deal  with 
them  as  they  had  dealt  with  the  people  of  Eretria.  And, 
because  there  was  no  place  in  all  Attica  so  convenient  for 
their  horse  as  Marathon,  and  it  lay,  moreover,  quite  close  to 
Eretria,  therefore  Hippias,  the  son  of  Pisistratus,  conducted 
them  thither.  When  intelligence  of  this  reached  the  Athen- 
ians, they  likewise  marched  their  troops  to  Marathon  and 
there  stood  on  the  defensive,  having  at  their  head  ten  generals, 
of  whom  one  was  Miltiades. 

Before  they  left  the  city,  the  generals  sent  off  to  Sparta  a 
herald,  one  Pheidippides,  who  was  by  birth  an  Athenian,  and 
by  profession  and  practice  a  trained  runner.  This  man,  ac- 
cording to  the  account  which  he  gave  to  the  Athenians  on  his 
return,  when  he  was  near  Mount  Parthenium,  above  Tegea, 
fell  in  with  the  god  Pan,  who  called  him  by  his  name  and 
bade  him  ask  the  Athenians  ' '  wherefore  they  neglected  him 
so  entirely,  when  he  was  kindly  disposed  towards  them,  and 
had  often  helped  them  in  times  past,  and  would  do  so  again 
in  time  to  come?"  The  Athenians,  entirely  believing  in  the 
truth  of  this  report,  as  soon  as  their  affairs  were  once  more 
in  good  order,  set  up  a  temple  to  Pan  under  the  Acropolis, 
and  in  return  for  the  message  which  I  have  recorded,  estab- 
lished in  his  honor  yearly  sacrifices  and  a  torch-race. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  when  Pheidippides 
was  sent  by  the  Athenian  generals,  and,  according  to  his  own 
account,  saw  Pan  on  his  journey,  he  reached  Sparta,  on  the 
very  next  day  after  quitting  the  city  of  Athens.  Upon  his 
arrival  he  went  before  the  rulers,  and  said  to  them,  "  Men  of 
L,acedaernon,  the  Athenians  beseech  you  to  hasten  to  their 
aid,  and  not  allow  that  state,  which  is  the  most  ancient  in  all 
Greece,  to  be  enslaved  by  the  barbarians.  Eretria,  look  you, 
is  already  carried  away  captive,  and  Greece  weakened  by  the 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  21 

loss  of  no  mean  city."  Thus  did  Pheidippides  deliver  the 
message  committed  to  him.  And  the  Spartans  wished  to  help 
the  Athenians,  but  were  unable  to  give  them  any  present  suc- 
cor, as  they  did  not  like  to  break  their  established  law.  It 
was  then  the  ninth  day  of  the  first  decade,  and  they  could  not 
march  out  of  Sparta  on  the  ninth,  when  the  moon  had  not 
reached  the  full.  So  they  waited  for  the  full  of  the  moon. 

The  barbarians  were  conducted  to  Marathon  by  Hippias, 
the  son  of  Pisistratus,  who  the  night  before  had  seen  a  strange 
vision  in  his  sleep.  He  dreamed  of  lying  in  his  mother's 
arms,  and  conjectured  the  dream  to  mean  that  he  would  be 
restored  to  Athens,  recover  the  power  which  he  had  lost,  and 
afterward  live  to  a  good  old  age  in  his  native  country.  Such 
was  the  sense  in  which  he  interpreted  the  vision.  He  now 
proceeded  to  act  as  guide  to  the  Persians,  and  in  the  first  place 
he  landed  the  prisoners  taken  from  Eretria  upon  the  island 
that  is  called  ^Egileia,  a  tract  belonging  to  the  Styreans,  after 
which  he  brought  the  fleet  to  anchor  off  Marathon,  and  mar- 
shalled the  bands  of  the  barbarians  as  they  disembarked.  As 
he  was  thus  employed  it  chanced  that  he  sneezed  and  at  the 
same  time  coughed  with  more  violence  than  was  his  wont. 
Now,  as  he  was  a  man  advanced  in  years  and  the  greater 
number  of  his  teeth  were  loose,  it  so  happened  that  one  of 
them  was  driven  out  with  the  force  of  the  cough  and  fell 
down  into  the  sand.  Hippias  took  all  the  pains  he  could  to 
find  it,  but  the  tooth  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  ;  whereupon  he 
fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and  said  to  the  bystanders,  "After  all, 
the  land  is  not  ours,  and  we  shall  never  be  able  to  bring  it 
under.  All  my  share  in  it  is  the  portion  of  which  my  tooth 
has  possession."  So  Hippias  believed  that  in  this  way  his 
dream  was  out. 

The  Athenians  were  drawn  up  in  order  of  battle  in  a 
sacred  close  belonging  to  Hercules,  when  they  were  joined  hy 
the  Plataeans,  who  came  in  full  force  to  their  aid.  Some  time 
before,  the  Plataeans  had  put  themselves  under  the  rule  of  the 
Athenians,  and  these  last  had  already  undertaken  many  labors 
on  their  behalf. 

The  Athenian  generals  were  divided  in  their  opinions,  and 
some  advised  not  to  risk  a  battle,  because  they  were  too  few  to 


22  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

engage  such  a  host  as  that  of  the  Medes,  while  others  were 
for  fighting  at  once  ;  and  among  these  last  was  Miltiades. 
He,  therefore,  seeing  that  opinions  were  thus  divided  and  that 
the  less  worthy  counsel  appeared  likely  to  prevail,  resolved  to 
go  to  the  polernarch  and  have  a  conference  with  him.  For 
the  man  on  whom  the  lot  fell  to  be  polernarch  at  Athens  was 
entitled  to  give  his  vote  with  the  ten  generals,  since  anciently 
the  Athenians  allowed  him  an  equal  right  of  voting  with 
them.  The  polernarch  at  this  juncture  was  Callimachus  of 
Aphidnae  ;  to  him,  therefore,  Miltiades  went  and  said  : 

"  With  thee  it  rests,  Callimachus,  either  to  bring  Athens 
to  slavery,  or,  by  securing  her  freedom,  to  leave  behind  thee 
to  all  future  generations  a  memory  beyond  even  Harmodius 
and  Aristogiton.  For  never  since  the  time  that  the  Athenians 
became  a  people  were  they  in  so  great  a  danger  as  now.  If 
they  bow  their  necks  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  Medes,  the  woes 
which  they  will  have  to  suffer  when  given  into  the  power  of 
Hippias  are  already  determined  on ;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  fight  and  overcome,  Athens  may  rise  to  be  the  very  first 
city  in  Greece.  How  it  comes  to  pass  that  these  things  are 
likely  to  happen,  and  how  the  determining  of  them  in  some 
sort  rests  with  thee,  I  will  now  proceed  to  make  clear.  We 
generals  are  ten  in  number,  and  our  votes  are  divided :  half 
of  us  wish  to  engage,  half  to  avoid  a  combat.  Now,  if  we  do 
not  fight,  I  look  to  see  a  great  disturbance  at  Athens  which 
will  shake  men's  resolutions,  and  then  I  fear  they  will  submit 
themselves  ;  but  if  we  fight  the  battle  before  any  unsoundness 
show  itself  among  our  citizens,  let  the  gods  but  give  us  fair 
play  and  we  are  well  able  to  overcome  the  enemy.  On  thee, 
therefore,  we  depend  in  this  matter,  which  lies  wholly  in  thine 
own  power.  Thou  hast  only  to  add  thy  vote  to  my  side  and 
thy  country  will  be  free,  and  not  free  only,  but  the  first  state 
in  Greece.  Or  if  thou  preferrest  to  give  thy  vote  to  them  who 
would  decline  the  combat,  then  the  reverse  will  follow." 

Miltiades  by  these  words  gained  Callimachus,  and  the 
addition  of  the  polernarch' s  vote  caused  the  decision  to  be  in 
favor  of  fighting.  Hereupon  all  those  generals  who  had  been 
desirous  of  hazarding  a  battle,  when  their  turn  came  to  com- 
mand the  army,  gave  up  their  right  to  Miltiades.  He,  how- 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  23 

ever,  though  lie  accepted  tlieir  offers,  nevertheless  waited  and 
would  not  fight  until  his  own  day  of  command  arrived  in  due 
course.  Then  at  length,  when  his  own  turn  was  come,  the 
Athenian  battle  was  set  in  array,  and  this  was  the  order  of  it : 
Callimachus  the  polemarch  led  the  right  wing ;  for  it  was  at 
that  time  a  rule  with  the  Athenians  to  give  the  right  wing  to 
the  polemarch.  After  this  followed  the  tribes,  according  as 
they  were  numbered,  in  an  unbroken  line ;  while  last  of  all 
came  the  Plataeans, forming  the  left  wing.  And  ever  since 
that  day  it  has  been  a  custom  with  the  Athenians,  in  the  sac- 
rifices and  assemblies  held  each  fifth  year  at  Athens,  for  the 
Athenian  herald  to  implore  the  blessing  of  the  gods  on  the 
Plataeans  conjointly  with  the  Athenians.  Now,  as  they  mar- 
shalled the  host  upon  the  field  of  Marathon,  in  order  that  the 
Athenian  front  might  be  of  equal  length  with  the  Median, 
the  ranks  of  the  centre  were  diminished,  and  it  became  the 
weakest  part  of  the  line,  while  the  wings  were  both  made 
strong  with  a  depth  of  many  ranks. 

So,  when  the  battle  was  set  in  array  and  the  victims 
showed  themselves  favorable,  instantly  the  Athenians,  so  soon 
as  they  were  let  go,  charged  the  barbarians  at  a  run.  Now, 
the  distance  between  the  two  armies  was  little  short  of  eight 
furlongs.  The  Persians,  therefore,  when  they  saw  the  Greeks 
coming  on  at  speed,  made  ready  to  receive  them,  although  it 
seemed  to  them  that  the  Athenians  were  bereft  of  their  senses, 
and  bent  upon  their  own  destruction ;  for  they  saw  a  mere 
handful  of  men  coming  on  at  a  run  without  either  horsemen 
or  archers.  Such  was  the  opinion  of  the  barbarians,  but  the 
Athenians  in  close  array  fell  upon  them  and  fought  in  a  man- 
ner worthy  of  being  recorded.  They  were  the  first  of  the 
Greeks,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  introduced  the  custom  of  charg- 
ing the  enemy  at  a  run,  and  they  were  likewise  the  first  who 
dared  to  look  upon  the  Median  garb  and  to  face  men  clad  in 
that  fashion.  Until  this  time  the  very  name  of  the  Medes 
had  been  a  terror  to  the  Greeks  to  hear. 

The  two  armies  fought  together  on  the  plain  of  Marathon 
for  a  length  of  time,  and  in  the  mid-battle,  where  the  Persians 
themselves  and  the  Sacaa  had  their  place,  the  barbarians  were 
victorious,  and  broke  and  pursued  the  Greeks  into  the  inner 


34  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

country,  but  on  the  two  wings  the  Athenians  and  the  Platseans 
defeated  the  enemy.  Having  so  done,  they  suffered  the  routed 
barbarians  to  fly  at  their  ease,  and,  joining  the  two  wings  in 
one,  fell  upon  those  who  had  broken  their  own  centre,  and 
fought  and  conquered  them.  These  likewise  fled,  and  now 
the  Athenians  hung  upon  the  runaways  and  cut  them  down, 
chasing  them  all  the  way  to  the  shore ;  on  reaching  which, 
they  laid  hold  of  the  ships  and  called  aloud  for  fire. 

It  was  in  the  struggle  here  that  Callimachus  the  pole- 
march,  after  greatly  distinguishing  himself,  lost  his  life ; 
Stesilaus,  too,  the  son  of  Thrasilaus,  one  of  the  generals,  was 
slain ;  and  Cynsegirus,  the  son  of  Euphorion,  having  seized 
on  a  vessel  of  the  enemy's  by  the  ornament  at  the  stern,  had 
his  hand  cut  off  by  the  blow  of  an  axe,  and  so  perished,  as 
likewise  did  many  other  Athenians  of  note  and  name. 

Nevertheless,  the  Athenians  secured  in  this  way  seven 
vessels,  while  with  the  remainder  the  barbarians  pushed  off, 
and,  taking  aboard  their  Bretrian  prisoners  from  the  island 
where  they  had  left  them,  doubled  Cape  Sunium,  hoping  to 
reach  Athens  before  the  return  of  the  Athenians.  The  Alc- 
mseonidae  were  accused  by  their  countrymen  of  suggesting 
this  course  to  them ;  they  had,  it  was  said,  an  understanding 
with  the  Persians,  and  made  a  signal  to  them  by  raising  a 
shield  after  they  were  embarked  in  their  ships. 

The  Persians  accordingly  sailed  round  Sunium,  but  the 
Athenians  with  all  possible  speed  marched  away  to  the  defence 
of  their  city,  and  succeeded  in  reaching  Athens  before  the 
appearance  of  the  barbarians  ;  and  as  their  camp  at  Marathon 
had  been  pitched  in  a  precinct  of  Hercules,  so  now  they  en- 
camped in  another  precinct  of  the  same  god  at  Cynosarges. 
The  barbarian  fleet  arrived  and  lay  to  off  Phalerum,  which 
was  at  that  time  the  haven  of  Athens  ;  but  after  resting  awhile 
upon  their  oars,  they  departed  and  sailed  away  to  Asia. 

There  fell  in  this  battle  of  Marathon,  on  the  side  of  the 
barbarians,  about  6,400  men  ;  on  that  of  the  Athenians,  192. 
Such  was  the  number  of  the  slain  on  the  one  side  and  the  other. 


THUCYDIDES. 

BEFORK  the  fluent  narrator  of  the 
wars  of  the  liberty-loving  Greeks  with 
the  Oriental  despotism  had  passed  from 
the  stage  of  life,  appeared  the  calmly  philosophic  historian 
who  was  to  depict  the  glory  and  decline  of  Athens.  Thucy- 
dides,  the  writer  of  the  Peloponnesian  War,  was  born  at 
Athens  about  B.C.  471.  He  was  of  noble  descent,  and  his 
high  station  enabled  him  to  receive  the  best  education  of  the 
time.  There  is  a  tradition  that,  when  a  lad  of  fifteen,  he 
heard'  Herodotus  recite  part  of  his  history  at  the  Olympic 
games,  he  was  affected  to  tears.  Though  a  faithful  citizen,  he 
had  little  liking  for  democracy,  having  witnessed  the  vulgar 
contentions  for  wit  and  reputation  among  the  demagogues, 
and  the  pernicious  effects  of  the  flattering  advice  of  those 
who  wished  to  attain  influence  among  the  common  people. 
When  he  determined  to  compose  his  history,  his  fortune  gave 
him  leisure,  his  disposition  was  free  from  malice,  and  his 
diligence  secured  that  no  pains  would  be  spared  in  getting 
at  the  truth. 

When  the  Peloponnesian  war  broke  out,  Thucydides 
began  his  history  as  a  brief  register  of  facts  and  actions.  It 
was  not  till  he  went  into  exile  that  he  began  to  polish  and 
perfect  his  work.  His  exile  came  about  in  this  way:  Amphi- 
polis,  a  town  on  the  borders  of  Thrace,  belonging  to  the 
Athenians,  was  besieged  by  the  Spartan  Brasidas.  Thucy- 
dides, who  was  in  command  of  a  squadron  of  seven  ships  off 
the  coast  of  Thasos,  was  sent  for  by  the  commander  at  Am- 
phipolis,  and  proceeded  thither  immediately.  Brasidas,  fear- 
ing the  arrival  of  a  superior  force,  offered  favorable  terms  to 
the  besieged,  which  were  accepted.  Thucydides  arrived  at 

25 


26  LITERATURE   OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

the  mouth  of  the  Strymon  twelve  hours  after  the  capitulation, 
and  saved  the  town  of  Eiou.  But  because  he  failed  to  save 
the  more  important  Amphipolis,  the  Athenian  people  banished 
him.  He  went  to  Thrace  and  spent  twenty  years  in  exile. 
He  appears  to  have  died  by  violence  while  defending  his 
property  from  robbers. 

The  "History  of  the  Peloponnesian  War  "  is  divided  into 
eight  books,  the  last  of  which  has  not  received  the  same 
polish  as  its  predecessors,  and  breaks  off  abruptly  in  the 
middle  of  the  twenty-first  year  of  the  war,  B.C.  41 1. 

With  regard  to  the  authority  of  Thucydides,  the  truth  of 
his  statements  was  never  called  in  question  till  the  nineteenth 
century;  but,  on  the  whole,  his  credibility  remains  unshaken. 
He  did  not  write  for  present  applause,  but,  as  he  expressly 
declares,  for  a  monument  to  instruct  ages  to  come.  He  said 
nothing  in  malice  against  the  Athenians  who  had  banished 
him,  though  he  might  well  have  been  excused  if  he  had 
done  so. 

In  the  first  book  he  gives  a  brief  summary  of  Greek  history 
from  the  earliest  times  to  the  outbreak  of  the  Peloponnesian 
war.  Then  he  goes  on  to  assign  the  cause  of  this  war,  which 
he  states  to  be  Spartan  jealousy  of  Athens.  This  is  his 
general  plan:  to  state  the  grounds  and  motives  before  the 
actions,  then  the  actions  themselves  ;  and,  finally,  the  effects 
of  these  actions.  He  was  thus  the  first  critical  and  philoso- 
phical historian.  He  has  been  much  praised  for  gravity  and 
dignity  of  language,  for  strength  and  pithiness.  Cicero  com- 
pares Herodotus  to  a  river  that  glides  gently  along,  and 
Thucydides  to  one  that  runs  with  a  strong,  swollen  current. 

Thucydides  is  often  charged  with  obscurity,  and  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  he  uses  long  and  intricate  sentences,  especially 
in  the  contemplation  of  human  passions  and  men's  humors 
and  manners.  In  other  cases  he  always  tries  to  make  his 
readers  spectators  of  what  is  described,  and  to  fire  them  with 
the  same  feeling  as  if  they  had  actually  been  present.  The 
speeches  with  which  the  narrative  is  interspersed  are  an 
Athenian  statesman's  presentation  of  the  arguments  practi- 
cally used  on  each  occasion.  So  much  was  his  work  esteemed 
by  the  ancients,  for  eloquence,  that  Demosthenes  is  said  to 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  27 

have  written  it  over  eight  times.  Yet  the  eloquence  is  not 
that  of  the  bar,  although  proper  enough  for  history,  and 
meant  to  be  read  rather  than  heard. 

Thucydides,  like  Anaxagoras,  Socrates  and  Pericles,  was 
charged  by  his  countrymen  with  atheism.  His  notions  in 
philosophy  placed  him  above  the  conception  of  the  vulgar, 
and  he  may  have  appeared  to  them  to  disregard  the  gods  ;  but 
the  drama  of  Divine  Providence  has  never  been  more  mani- 
festly set  forth  than  in  his  grand  recital  of  the  disintegration 
of  the  Hellenic  empire. 

HARMODIUS  AND  ARISTOGITON. 

PlSiSTRATUS  died  at  an  advanced  age,  being  tyrant  of 
Athens ;  and  then,  not,  as  is  the  common  opinion,  Hippar- 
chus,  but  Hippias  (who  was  the  eldest  of  his  sons)  succeeded 
to  his  power.  Harmodius  was  in  the  flower  of  youth,  and 
Aristogiton,  a  citizen  of  the  middle  class,  became  his  lover. 
Hipparchus  made  an  attempt  to  gain  the  affections  of  Har- 
modius, but  he  would  not  listen  to  him,  and  told  Aristogiton. 
The  latter  was  naturally  tormented  at  the  idea,  and  fearing 
that  Hipparchus  who  was  powerful  would  resort  to  violence, 
at  once  formed  such  a  plot  as  a  man  in  his  station  might  for 
the  overthrow  of  the  tyranny.  Meanwhile  Hipparchus  made 
another  attempt ;  he  had  no  better  success,  and  thereupon  he 
determined,  not  indeed  to  take  any  violent  step,  but  to  insult 
Harmodius  in  some  secret  place,  so  that  his  motive  could  not 
be  suspected.  To  use  violence  would  have  been  at  variance 
with  the  general  character  of  his  administration,  which  was 
not  unpopular  or  oppressive  to  the  many;  in  fact  no  tyrants 
ever  displayed  greater  merit  or  capacity  than  these.  Although 
the  tax  on  the  produce  of  the  soil  which  they  exacted  amounted 
only  to  five  per  cent. ,  they  improved  and  adorned  the  city, 
and  carried  on  successful  wars ;  they  were  also  in  the  habit 
of  sacrificing  in  the  temples.  The  city  meanwhile  was  per- 
mitted to  retain  her  ancient  laws ;  but  the  family  of  Pisis- 
tratus  took  care  that  one  of  their  own  number  should  always 
be  in  office.  Among  others  who  thus  held  the  annual  archon- 
at  Athens  was  Pisistratus,  a  son  of  the  tyrant  Hippias. 


28  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

He  was  named  after  his  grandfather  Pisistratus,  and  during 
his  term  of  office  he  dedicated  the  altar  of  the  Twelve  Gods 
in  the  Agora  [or  Forum],  and  another  altar  in  the  temple  of 
the  Pythian  Apollo.  The  Athenian  people  afterwards  added 
to  one  side  of  the  altar  in  the  Agora,  and  so  concealed  the 
inscription  upon  it ;  but  the  other  inscription  on  the  altar  of 
the  Pythian  Apollo  may  still  be  seen,  although  the  letters  are 
nearly  effaced.  It  runs  as  follows  : 

"Pisistratus,  the  son  of  Hippias,  dedicated  this  memorial  of 
his  archonship  in  the  sacred  precinct  of  the  Pythian  Apollo. ' ' 

When  Hipparchus  found  his  advances  repelled  by  Har- 
modius,  he  carried  out  his  intention  of  insulting  him.  There 
was  a  young  sister  of  his  whom  Hipparchus  and  his  friends 
first  invited  to  come  and  carry  a  sacred  basket  in  a  proces- 
sion, and  then  rejected  her,  declaring  that  she  had  never  been 
invited  by  them  at  all  because  she  was  unworthy.  At  this 
Harmodius  was  very  angry,  and  Aristogiton,  for  his  sake, 
more  angry  still.  They  and  the  other  conspirators  had 
already  laid  their  preparations,  but  were  waiting  for  the 
festival  of  the  great  Panathensea,  when  the  citizens  who  took 
part  in  the  procession  assembled  in  arms ;  for  to  wear  arms 
on  any  other  day  would  have  aroused  suspicion.  Harmodius 
and  Aristogiton  were  to  begin  the  attack,  and  the  rest  were 
immediately  to  join  in,  and  engage  with  the  guards.  The 
plot  had  been  communicated  to  a  few  only,  the  better  to 
avoid  detection ;  but  they  hoped  that,  however  few  struck 
the  blow,  the  crowd  who  would  be  armed,  although  not  in 
the  secret,  would  at  once  rise  and  assist  in  the  recovery  of 
their  own  liberties. 

The  day  of  the  festival  arrived,  and  Hippias  went  out  of 
the  city  to  the  place  called  the  Ceramicus,  where  he  was 
occupied  with  his  guards  in  marshalling  the  procession. 
Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,' who  were  ready  with  their  dag- 
gers, stepped  forward  to  do  the  deed.  But  seeing  one  of  the 
conspirators  in  familiar  conversation  with  Hippias,  who  was 
readily  accessible  to  all,  they  took  alarm  and  imagined  that 
they  had  been  betrayed,  and  were  on  the  point  of  being 
seized.  Whereupon  they  determined  to  take  their  revenge 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  29 

first  on  the  man  who  had  outraged  them  and  was  the  cause 
of  their  desperate  attempt.  So  they  rushed,  just  as  they 
were,  within  the  gates.  They  found  Hipparchus  near  the 
Leocorium,  as  it  was  called,  and  then  and  there  falling  upon 
him  with  all  the  blind  fury,  one  of  an  injured  lover,  the 
other  of  a  man  smarting  under  an  insult,  they  smote  and 
slew  him.  The  crowd  ran  together,  and  so  Aristogiton  for 
the  present  escaped  the  guards ;  but  he  was  afterwards  taken 
and  not  very  gently  handled.  Harmodius  perished  on  the 
spot. 

The  news  was  carried  to  Hippias  at  the  Ceramicus ;  he 
went  at  once,  not  to  the  place,  but  to  the  armed  men  who 
were  to  march  in  the  procession  and,  being  at  a  distance, 
were  as  yet  ignorant  of  what  had  happened.  Betraying 
nothing  in  his  looks  of  the  calamity  which  had  befallen 
him,  he  bade  them  leave  their  arms  and  go  to  a  certain  spot 
which  he  pointed  out.  They,  supposing  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  them,  obeyed,  and  then  bidding  his  guards 
seize  the  arms,  he  at  once  selected  those  whom  he  thought 
guilty,  and  all  who  were  found  carrying  daggers ;  for  the 
custom  was  to  march  in  the  procession  with  spear  and  shield 
only. 

Such  was  the  conspiracy  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton, 
which  began  in  the  resentment  of  a  lover ;  the  reckless 
attempt  which  followed  arose  out  of  a  sudden  fright.  To 
the  people  at  large  the  tyranny  simply  became  more  oppres- 
sive, and  Hippias,  after  his  brother's  death  living  in  great 
fear,  slew  many  of  the  citizens  ;  he  also  began  to  look  abroad 
in  hope  of  securing  an  asylum  should  a  revolution  occur. 

Hippias  ruled  three  years  longer  over  the  Athenians.  In 
the  fourth  year  he  was  deposed  by  the  Lacedaemonians  and 
the  exiled  Alcmseonidae.  He  retired  under  an  agreement, 
first  to  Sigeium,  and  then  to  ^antides  at  L,ampsacus.  From 
him  he  went  to  the  court  of  Darius,  whence,  returning  twenty 
years  later  with  the  Persian  army,  he  took  part  in  the  expedi- 
tion to  Marathon,  being  then  an  old  man. 

[Harmodius  and  Aristogiton  have  been  celebrated  as  model 
patriots  by  those  who  approve  tyrannicide  ;  but  they  slew  the  wrong 


30  LITERATURE;  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

man,  and  only  provoked  Hippias  to  sterner  measures  of  repression. 
A  song  in  their  honor  was  afterwards  a  favorite  in  Athens. 

THE  SWORD  AND  THE  MYRTLE. 

I'LL  wreathe  with  myrtle-bough  my  sword, 
lyike  those  who  struck  down  Athens'  lord, 
Our  laws  engrafting  equal  right  on — 
Harmodius  and  Aristogiton. 

Harmodius  dear,  thon  art  not  dead, 
But  in  the  happy  isles,  they  say, 
Where  fleet  Achilles  lives  for  aye, 
And  good  Tydides  Diomed . 

I'll  wreathe  my  sword  with  myrtle-bough, 
Like  those  who  laid  Hipparchus  low, 
When  on  Athene's  holiday 
The  tyrant  wight  they  dared  to  slay. 

Because  they  slew  him,  and  because 
They  gave  to  Athens  equal  laws, 
Bternal  fame  shall  shed  a  light  on 
Harmodius  and  Aristogiton.] 

PAUSANIAS  THE  SPARTAN. 

WHEN  Pausanias  the  Lacedaemonian  was  originally  sum- 
moned by  the  Spartans  to  give  an  account  of  his  command 
at  the  Hellespont,  and  had  been  tried  and  acquitted,  he  was 
no  longer  sent  out  in  a  public  capacity,  but  he  hired  a  trireme 
of  Hermione  on  his  own  account  and  sailed  to  the  Hellespont, 
pretending  that  he  had  gone  thither  to  fight  in  the  cause  of  the 
Hellenes.  In  reality  he  wanted  to  prosecute  an  intrigue  with 
the  king  of  Persia,  by  which  he  hoped  to  obtain  the  empire  of 
Hellas.  He  had  already  taken  the  first  steps  after  the  retreat 
from  Cyprus,  when  he  captured  Byzantium.  The  city  was 
at  that  time  held  by  the  Persians  and  by  certain  relatives  and 
kinsmen  of  the  king,  who  were  taken  prisoners.  These  he 
restored  to  the  king  without  the  knowledge  of  the  allies,  to 
whom  he  declared  that  they  had  made  their  escape.  This  act 
was  the  beginning  of  the  whole  affair,  and  thereby  he  origi- 
nally placed  the  king  under  an  obligation  to  him.  His 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  31 

accomplice  was  Gongylus  the  Eretrian,  to  whose  care  he  had 
entrusted  Byzantium  and  the  captives.  To  this  same  Gongy- 
lus he  also  gave  a  letter  addressed  to  the  king,  of  which,  as 
was  afterwards  discovered,  the  terms  were  as  follows : 

"  Pausanias,  the  Spartan  commander,  desiring  to  do  you  a 
service,  sends  you  back  these  captives  of  his  spear.  And  I 
propose,  if  you  have  no  objection,  to  marry  your  daughter, 
and  to  bring  Sparta  and  the  rest  of  Hellas  under  your  sway. 
I  think  that  I  can  accomplish  this  if  you  and  I  take  counsel 
together.  Should  you  approve  of  my  proposal,  send  a  trusty 
person  to  the  sea  and  through  him  we  will  negotiate."  Thus 
far  the  letter. 

Xerxes  was  pleased,  and  sent  Artabazus  the  son  of  Phar- 
naces  to  the  sea,  commanding  him  to  assume  the  government 
of  the  satrapy  of  Dascylium  in  the  room  of  Megabates.  An 
answer  was  entrusted  to  him,  which  he  was  to  send  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  Pausanias  at  Byzantium  ;  he  was  to  show  him 
at  the  same  time  the  royal  seal.  If  Pausanias  gave  him  any 
order  about  his  own  affairs,  he  was  to  execute  it  with  all  dili- 
gence and  fidelity.  Artabazus  came  down  to  the  sea,  as  he 
was  desired,  and  transmitted  the  letter.  The  answer  of  the 
king  was  as  follows : 

"Thus  saith  Xerxes,  the  King,  to  Pausanias.  The  benefit 
which  thou  hast  done  me  in  saving  the  captives  who  were 
taken  at  Byzantium  beyond  the  sea  is  recorded  in  my  house 
for  ever,  and  thy  words  please  me.  Let  neither  day  nor  night 
hinder  thee  from  fulfilling  diligently  the  promise  which  thou 
hast  made  to  me ;  spare  not  gold  or  silver,  and  take  as  large 
an  army  as  thou  wilt,  wheresoever  it  may  be  required.  I 
have  sent  to  thee  Artabazus,  a  good  man ;  act  with  him  for 
my  honor  and  welfare,  and  for  thine  own,  and  be  of  good 
courage. ' ' 

Pausanias  received  the  letter.  He  had  already  acquired  a 
high  reputation  among  the  Hellenes  when  in  command  at 
Platsea,  and  now  he  was  so  great  that  he  could  no  longer 
contain  himself  or  live  like  other  men.  As  he  marched  out 
of  Byzantium  he  wore  Persian  apparel.  On  his  way  through 
Thrace  he  was  attended  by  a  body-guard  of  Medes  and  Egyp- 
tians, and  he  had  his  table  served  after  the  Persian  fashion. 


32  LITERATURE  OP  AI.I,  NATIONS. 

He  could  not  conceal  his  ambition,  but  indicated  by  little 
tilings  the  greater  designs  which  he  was  meditating.  He 
made  himself  difficult  of  access,  and  displayed  such  a  violent 
temper  towards  everybody  that  no  one  could  come  near  him  ; 
and  this  was  one  of  the  chief  reasons  why  the  confederacy 
transferred  themselves  to  the  Athenians. 

The  news  of  his  behavior  soon  reached  the  Lacedae- 
monians, who  recalled  him  in  the  first  instance  on  this 
ground.  And  now,  when  he  had  sailed  away  in  the  ship  of 
Hermione  without  leave,  and  was  evidently  carrying  on  the 
same  practices ;  when  he  had  been  forced  out  of  Byzantium, 
and  the  gates  had  been  shut  against  him  by  the  Athenians ; 
and  when,  instead  of  returning  to  Sparta,  he  settled  at 
Colonae  in  Troas,  and  was  reported  to  the  Ephors*  to  be 
negotiating  with  the  Barbarians,  and  to  be  staying  there  for 
no  good  purpose,  then  at  last  they  made  up  their  minds  to 
act.  They  sent  a  herald  to  him  with  a  despatch  rolled  on  a 
scytale,f  commanding  him  to  follow  the  officer  home,  and 
saying  that,  if  he  refused,  Sparta  would  declare  war  against 
him.  He,  being  desirous  as  far  as  he  could  to  avoid  suspicion 
and  believing  that  he  could  dispose  of  the  accusations  by 
bribery,  returned  for  the  second  time  to  Sparta.  On  his 
return  he  was  at  once  thrown  into  prison  by  the  Ephors,  who 
have  the  power  to  imprison  the  king  himself.  But  after  a 
time  he  contrived  to  come  out,  and  challenged  any  one  who 
asserted  his  guilt  to  bring  him  to  trial. 

As  yet,  however,  neither  his  enemies  among  the  citizens 
nor  the  Spartan  government  had  any  trustworthy  evidence 
such  as  would  have  justified  them  in  inflicting  punishment 
upon  a  member  of  the  royal  family  holding  royal  office  at  the 
time.  For  he  was  the  guardian  as  well  as  cousin  of  the  king, 
Pleistarchus,  son  of  Leonidas,  who  was  still  a  minor.  But 
his  disregard  of  propriety  and  affectation  of  Barbarian  fashions 
made  them  strongly  suspect  that  he  was  dissatisfied  with  his 
position  in  the  state.  They  examined  into  any  violation  of 

*  The  Ephors  (overseers)  were  five  officers  elected  annually  to  con- 
trol and  direct  the  actions  of  the  kings  of  Sparta. 

t  An  official  staff  around  which  the  strip  containing  the  despatch 
was  rolled  so  as  to  become  intelligible. 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  33 

established  usage  which  they  could  find  in  his  previous  life  ; 
and  they  remembered  among  other  things  how  in  past  times 
he  had  presumed  on  his  own  authority  to  inscribe  on  the 
tripod  at  Delphi,  which  the  Hellenes  dedicated  as  the  first 
fruits  of  their  victory  over  the  Persians,  this  elegiac  couplet : 

"  Pausanias,  captain  of  the  Hellenes,  having  destroyed  the  Per- 
sian host, 
Made  this  offering  to  Phrebus  for  a  memorial." 

The  Lacedaemonians  at  once  effaced  the  lines  and  inscribed 
on  the  tripod  the  names  of  the  cities  which  had  taken  part  in 
the  overthrow  of  the  Barbarian  and  in  the  dedication  of  the 
offering.  But  still  this  act  of  Pausanias  gave  offence  at  the 
time,  and  now  that  he  had  again  fallen  under  suspicion, 
seemed  to  receive  a  new  light  from  his  present  designs. 
They  were  also  informed  that  he  was  intriguing  with  the 
Helots  ;  and  this  was  true,  for  he  had  promised  them  emanci- 
pation and  citizenship  if  they  would  join  him  in  an  insurrec- 
tion and  help  to  carry  out  his  whole  design.  Still  the  magis- 
trates would  not  take  decided  measures ;  they  even  refused  to 
believe  the  distinct  testimony  which  certain  Helots  brought 
against  him  ;  their  habit  having  always  been  to  be  slow  in 
taking  an  irrevocable  decision  against  a  Spartan  without 
incontestable  proof.  At  last  a  certain  man  of  Argilus,  who 
had  been  a  favorite  and  was  still  a  confidential  servant  of 
Pausanias,  turned  informer.  He  had  been  commissioned  by 
him  to  carry  to  Artabazus  the  last  letters  for  the  king,  but 
the  thought  struck  him  that  no  previous  messenger  had  ever 
returned;  he  took  alarm,  and  so,  having  counterfeited  the 
seal  of  Pausanias  in  order  to  avoid  discovery  if  he  were  mis- 
taken, or  if  Pausanias,  wanting  to  make  some  alterations, 
should  ask  him  for  the  letter,  he  opened  it,  and  among  the 
directions  given  in  it  found  written,  as  he  had  suspected,  an 
order  for  his  own  death. 

He  showed  the  letter  to  the  Ephors,  who  were  now  more 
inclined  to  believe,  but  still  they  wanted  to  hear  something 
from  Pausanias'  own  mouth  ;  and  so,  according  to  a  plan  pre- 
concerted with  them,  the  man  went  to  Tsenarus  as  a  suppliant 
and  there  put  up  a  hut  divided  by  a  partition.  In  the  inner 
iv— 3 


34  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

part  of  the  hut  he  placed  some  of  the  Ephors,  and  when 
Pausanias  came  to  him  and  asked  him  why  he  was  a  sup- 
pliant, the  whole  truth  was  at  once  revealed  to  them.  There 
was  the  man  reproaching  Pausanias  with  the  directions  which 
he  had  found  in  the  letter,  and  going  into  minute  details 
about  the  whole  affair ;  he  protested  that  never  on  any  occa- 
sion had  he  brought  him  into  any  trouble  when  sent  on  his 
service  in  this  matter  to  the  king :  why  then  should  he  share 
the  fate  of  the  other  messengers,  and  be  rewarded  with  death? 
And  there  was  Pausanias,  admitting  the  truth  of  his  words, 
and  telling  him  not  to  be  angry  at  what  had  happened,  offer- 
ing to  raise  him  by  the  hand  that  he  might  safely  leave  the 
temple,  and  bidding  him  go  about  the  business  at  once  and 
not  make  difficulties. 

The  Bphors,  who  had  heard  every  word,  went  away  for 
the  present,  intending,  now  that  they  had  certain  knowledge, 
to  take  Pausanias  in  the  city.  It  is  said  that  he  was  on  the 
point  of  being  arrested  in  the  street,  when  the  face  of  one 
of  them  as  they  approached  revealed  to  him  their  purpose, 
and  another  who  was  friendly  warned  him  by  a  hardly  per- 
ceptible nod.  Whereupon  he  ran  and  fled  to  the  temple  of 
Athene  of  the  Brazen  House  and  arrived  before  them,  for  the 
precinct*  was  not  far  off.  There,  entering  into  a  small  house 
which  belonged  to  the  temple,  that  he  might  not  suffer  from 
exposure  to  the  weather,  he  remained.  When  his  pursuers, 
who  had  failed  in  overtaking  him,  came  up,  they  unroofed 
the  building,  and  having  made  sure  that  he  was  within  and 
could  not  get  out,  they  built  up  the  doors,  and,  investing  the 
place,  starved  him  to  death.  He  was  on  the  point  of  expiring 
in  the  temple  where  he  lay,  when  they,  observing  his  condi- 
tion, brought  him  out ;  he  was  still  breathing,  but  as  soon  as 
he  was  brought  out  he  died.  The  Spartans  were  going  to 
cast  his  body  into  the  Cseadas,  a  chasm  into  which  they 
throw  malefactors,  but  they  changed  their  minds  and  buried 
him  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood.  The  God  of  Delphi 
afterwards  commanded  them  to  transfer  him  to  the  place 
where  he  died,  and  he  now  lies  in  the  entrance  to  the  pre- 

*  The  ground  over  which  the  rights  of  the  temple  extended. 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  35 

cinct,  as  the  inscription  on  the  column  testifies.  The  oracle 
also  told  them  that  they  had  brought  a  curse  upon  them- 
selves, and  must  offer  two  bodies  for  one  to  Athene  of  the 
Brazen  House.  Whereupon  they  made  two  brazen  statues, 
which  they  dedicated,  intending  them  to  be  an  expiation  for 
Pausanias. 

THE  CHARACTER  OP  PERICLES. 

So  long  as  Pericles  stood  at  the  head  of  Athens  in  time 
of  peace,  he  governed  it  with  moderation  and  maintained  it 
in  safety,  and  under  him  it  rose  to  its  highest  power.  And 
when  the  war  broke  out  he  proved  that  he  had  well  calcu- 
lated the  resources  of  the  State.  He  lived  through  two  years 
and  a  half  of  it ;  and  when  he  died,  his  foresight  as  to  its 
conduct  became  even  more  generally  admitted.  For  he 
always  said  that  if  they  were  patient  and  paid  due  attention 
to  their  navy,  and  did  not  grasp  at  extension  of  empire  during 
the  war,  or  expose  their  city  to  danger,  they  would  be  the 
victors.  But  they  did  the  very  contrary  to  all  this ;  and  in 
matters  which  seemed  to  have  no  reference  to  the  war  they 
followed  an  evil  policy  as  to  their  own  interests  and  those  of 
their  allies,  and  in  accordance  with  their  private  jealousies 
and  private  advantage ;  measures  which,  when  successful, 
brought  honors  and  profits  to  individuals  only,  while,  if  they 
failed,  the  disadvantage  was  felt  by  the  State  in  its  results  on 
the  war. 

The  reason  lay  in  this :  that  Pericles,  powerful  by  his 
influence  and  ability,  and  manifestly  incorruptible  by  bribes, 
exercised  a  control  over  the  masses,  combined  with  excellent 
tact,  and  rather  led  them  than  allowed  them  to  lead  him. 
For  since  he  did  not  gain  his  ascendancy  by  unbecoming 
means,  he  never  used  language  to  humor  them,  but  was  able, 
on  the  strength  of  his  high  character,  even  to  oppose  their 
passions.  That  is,  when  he  saw  them  overweeningly  confi- 
dent without  just  grounds,  he  would  speak  so  as  to  inspire 
them  with  a  wholesome  fear ;  or,  when  they  were  unreason- 
ably alarmed,  he  would  raise  their  spirits  again  to  confidence. 
Thus  Athens  was  a  nominal  democracy,  but  in  fact  the 
government  of  the  one  foremost  man. 


36  LITERATURE   OP  AU<  NATIONS. 


CLEON'S  VICTORY  AT  SPHACTERIA. 

At  Pylos  the  Athenians  continued  to  blockade  the  Lace- 
daemonians in  the  island  of  Sphacteria,  and  the  Peloponnesian 
army  on  the  mainland  remained  in  their  old  position.  The 
watch  was  harassing  to  the  Athenians,  for  they  were  in  want 
both  of  food  and  water ;  there  was  only  one  small  well,  which 
was  inside  the  fort,  and  the  soldiers  were  commonly  in  the 
habit  of  scraping  away  the  shingle  on  the  seashore,  and  drink- 
ing any  water  which  they  could  get.  The  Athenian  garrison 
was  crowded  into  a  narrow  space,  and,  their  ships  having  no 
regular  anchorage,  the  crews  took  their  meals  on  land  by 
turns ;  one-half  of  the  army  eating  while  the  other  lay  at 
anchor  in  the  open  sea.  The  unexpected  length  of  the  siege 
was  a  great  discouragement  to  them  ;  they  had  hoped  to  starve 
their  enemies  out  in  a  few  days,  for  they  were  on  a  desert  island, 
and  had  only  brackish  water  to  drink.  The  secret  of  this 
protracted  resistance  was  a  proclamation  issued  by  the  Lace- 
daemonians offering  large  fixed  prices,  and  freedom  if  he  were 
a  Helot,  to  any  one  who  would  convey  into  the  island  meal, 
wine,  cheese,  or  any  other  provision  suitable  for  a  besieged 
place.  Many  braved  the  danger,  especially  the  Helots  ;  they 
started  from  all  points  of  Peloponnesus,  and  before  daybreak 
bore  down  upon  the  shore  of  the  island  looking  towards  the 
open  sea.  They  took  especial  care  to  have  a  strong  wind  in 
their  favor,  since  they  were  less  likely  to  be  discovered  by  the 
triremes  when  it  blew  hard  from  the  sea.  The  blockade  was 
then  impracticable,  and  the  crews  of  the  boats  were  perfectly 
reckless  in  running  them  aground  ;  for  a  value  had  been  set 
upon  them,  and  Lacedaemonian  hoplites  were  waiting  to  re- 
ceive them  about  the  landing-places  of  the  island.  All,  how- 
ever, who  ventured  when  the  sea  was  calm  were  captured. 
Some,  too,  dived  and  swam  by  way  of  the  harbor,  drawing 
after  them  by  a  cord  skins  containing  pounded  linseed  and 
poppy-seeds  mixed  with  honey.  At  first  they  were  not  found 
out,  but  afterwards  watches  were  posted.  The  two  parties 
had  all  sorts  of  devices,  the  one  determined  to  send  in  foodp 
the  other  to  detect  them. 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  37 

When  the  Athenians  heard  that  their  own  army  was  suf- 
fering, and  that  supplies  were  introduced  into  the  island,  they 
began  to  be  anxious  and  were  apprehensive  that  the  blockade 
might  extend  into  the  winter.  Cleon,  knowing  that  he  was 
an  object  of  general  mistrust,  because  he  had  stood  in  the  way 
of  peace,  challenged  the  reports  of  the  messengers  from  Pylos ; 
who  rejoined  that,  if  their  words  were  not  believed,  the 
Athenians  should  send  commissioners  of  their  own.  And  so 
Theagenes  and  Cleon  himself  were  chosen  commissioners. 
Pointedly  alluding  to  Nicias,  who  was  one  of  the  generals 
and  an  enemy  of  his,  he  declared  sarcastically,  that,  if  the 
generals  were  good  for  anything,  they  might  easily  sail  to  the 
island  and  take  the  Lacedaemonians,  and  that  this  was  what 
he  would  certainly  do  himself  if  he  were  general. 

Nicias  perceived  that  the  multitude  were  murmuring  at 
Cleon,  and  asking  "  why  he  did  not  sail — now  was  his  time 
if  he  thought  the  capture  of  Sphacteria  to  be  such  an  easy 
matter : ' '  and  hearing  him  attack  the  generals,  he  told  him 
that,  as  far  as  they  were  concerned,  he  might  take  any  force 
which  he  required  and  try.  Cleon  at  first  imagined  that  the 
offer  of  Nicias  was  only  a  pretence,  and  was  willing  to  go ; 
but  finding  that  he  was  in  earnest,  he  tried  to  back  out,  and 
said  that  not  he  but  Nicias  was  general.  He  was  now  alarmed, 
for  he  never  imagined  that  Nicias  would  go  so  far  as  to  give 
up  his  place  to  him.  Again  Nicias  bade  him  take  the  com- 
mand of  the  expedition  against  Pylos,  which  he  formally 
gave  up  to  him  in  the  presence  of  the  assembly.  And  the 
more  Cleon  declined  the  proffered  command  and  tried  to 
retract  what  he  had  said,  so  much  the  more  the  multitude, 
as  their  manner  is,  urged  Nicias  to  resign  and  shouted  to 
Cleon  that  he  should  sail.  At  length,  not  knowing  how  to 
escape  from  his  own  words,  he  undertook  the  expedition,  and, 
coming  forward,  said  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  the  Lacedae- 
monians, and  that  he  would  sail  without  drawing  a  single 
man  from  the  city  if  he  were  allowed  to  have  the  Lemnian 
and  Imbrian  forces  now  at  Athens,  the  auxiliaries  from  ^nus, 
who  were  targeteers,  and  four  hundred  archers  from  other 
places.  With  these  and  with  the  troops  already  at  Pylos  he 
gave  his  word  that  within  twenty  days  he  would  either  bring 


38  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

the  I/acedaemonians  alive  or  kill  them  on  the  spot.  His  vain 
words  moved  the  Athenians  to  laughter ;  nevertheless  the 
wiser  sort  of  men  were  pleased  when  they  reflected  that  of 
two  good  things  they  could  not  fail  to  obtain  one — either 
there  would  be  an  end  of  Cleon,  which  they  would  have 
greatly  preferred,  or,  if  they  were  disappointed,  he  would  put 
the  Lacedaemonians  into  their  hands. 

When  he  had  concluded  the  affair  in  the  assembly,  and 
the  Athenians  had  passed  the  necessary  vote,  he  made  choice 
of  Demosthenes,  one  of  the  commanders  at  Pylos,  to  be  his 
colleague,  and  proceeded  to  sail  with  all  speed.  He  selected 
Demosthenes,  because  he  heard  that  he  was  already  intending 
to  make  an  attack  upon  the  island  ;  for  the  soldiers,  who  were 
suffering  much  from  the  discomfort  of  the  place,  in  which 
they  were  rather  besieged  than  besiegers,  were  eager  to  strike 
a  decisive  blow.  Cleon  sent  and  announced  to  Demosthenes 
his  approach,  and  soon  afterwards,  bringing  with  him  the 
army  which  he  had  requested,  himself  arrived  at  Pylos.  On 
the  meeting  of  the  two  generals  they  first  of  all  sent  a  herald 
to  the  Lacedaemonian  force  on  the  mainland,  proposing  that 
they  should  avoid  any  further  risk  by  ordering  the  men  in  the 
island  to  surrender  with  their  arms ;  they  were  to  be  placed 
under  surveillance,  but  well  treated  until  a  general  peace  was 
concluded. 

Finding  that  their  proposal  was  rejected,  the  Athenians 
waited  for  a  day,  and  on  the  night  of  the  day  following  put 
off,  taking  with  them  all  their  heavy-armed  troops,  whom 
they  had  embarked  in  a  few  ships.  A  little  before  dawn  they 
landed  on  both  sides  of  the  island,  towards  the  sea  and  towards 
the  harbor,  a  force  amounting  in  all  to  about  eight  hundred 
men.  They  then  ran  as  fast  as  they  could  to  the  first  station 
on  the  island.  Now  the  disposition  of  the  enemy  was  as  fol- 
lows :  The  first  station  was  garrisoned  by  about  thirty  hoplites, 
while  the  main  body  under  the  command  of  Epitadas  was 
posted  near  the  spring  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  where  the 
ground  was  most  level.  A  small  force  guarded  the  furthest 
extremity  of  the  island  opposite  Pylos,  which  was  precipitous 
towards  the  sea,  and  on  the  land  side  the  strongest  point  of 
all,  being  protected  to  some  extent  by  an  ancient  wall  made 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  39 

of  rough  stones,  which  the  Spartans  thought  would  be  of  use 
to  them  if  they  were  overpowered  and  compelled  to  retreat. 

The  Athenians  rushed  upon  the  first  garrison  and  cut  them 
down,  half  asleep  as  they  were  and  just  snatching  up  their 
arms.  They  had  not  seen  the  enemy  land,  and  fancied  that 
their  ships  were  only  gone  to  keep  the  customary  watch  for 
the  night.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  the  rest  of  the  army 
began  to  disembark.  They  were  the  crews  of  rather  more 
than  seventy  ships,  including  all  but  the  lowest  rank  of 
rowers,  variously  equipped.  There  were  also  archers  to  the 
number  of  eight  hundred,  and  as  many  targeteers,  besides  the 
Messenian  auxiliaries  and  all  who  were  on  duty  about  Pylos, 
except  the  guards,  who  could  not  be  spared  from  the  walls  of 
the  fortress.  Demosthenes  divided  them  into  parties  of  two 
hundred,  more  or  less,  who  seized  the  highest  points  of  the 
island  in  order  that  the  enemy,  being  completely  surrounded 
and  distracted  by  the  number  of  their  opponents,  might  not 
know  whom  they  should  face  first,  but  might  be  exposed  to 
missiles  on  every  side.  For  if  they  attacked  those  who  were 
in  front,  they  would  be  assailed  by  those  behind  ;  and  if  those 
on  the  flank,  by  those  posted  on  the  other ;  and  whichever 
way  they  moved,  the  light-armed  troops  of  the  enemy  were 
sure  to  be  in  their  rear.  These  were  their  most  embarrassing 
opponents,  because  they  were  armed  with  bows  and  javelins 
and  slings  and  stones,  which  could  be  used  with  effect  at  a 
distance.  Even  to  approach  them  was  impossible,  for  they 
conquered  in  their  very  flight,  and,  when  an  enemy  retreated, 
pressed  close  at  his  heels.  Such  was  the  plan  of  the  descent 
which  Demosthenes  had  in  his  mind,  and  which  he  now 
carried  into  execution. 

The  main  body  of  the  Lacedaemonians  on  the  island  under 
Epitadas,  when  they  saw  the  first  garrison  cut  to  pieces,  and 
an  army  approaching  them,  drew  up  in  battle  array.  The 
Athenian  hoplites  were  right  in  front,  and  the  Lacedaemonians 
advanced  against  them,  wanting  to  come  to  close  quarters ; 
but,  having  light-armed  adversaries  both  on  their  flank  and 
rear,  they  could  not  get  at  them  or  profit  by  their  own  mili- 
tary skill,  for  they  were  impeded  by  a  shower  of  missiles  from 
both  sides.  Meanwhile  the  Athenians,  instead  of  going  to 


40  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

meet  them,  remained  in  position,  while  the  light-armed,  again 
and  again  ran  up  and  attacked  the  Lacedaemonians,  who  drove 
them  back  where  they  pressed  closest.  But  though  compelled 
to  retreat  they  still  continued  fighting,  being  lightly  equipped 
and  easily  getting  the  start  of  their  enemies.  The  ground  was 
difficult  and  rough,  the  island  having  been  uninhabited  ;  and 
the  Lacedaemonians,  who  were  encumbered  by  their  arms, 
could  not  pursue  them  in  such  a  place. 

For  some  little  time  these  skirmishes  continued.  But  soon 
the  Lacedaemonians  became  too  weary  to  rush  out  upon  their 
assailants,  who  began  to  be  sensible  that  their  resistance  grew 
feebler.  The  sight  of  their  own  number,  which  was  many 
times  that  of  the  enemy,  encouraged  them  more  than  any- 
thing ;  they  soon  found  that  their  losses  were  trifling  compared 
with  what  they  had  expected ;  and  familiarity  made  them 
think  their  opponents  much  less  formidable  than  when  they 
first  landed,  cowed  by  the  fear  of  facing  Lacedaemonians.  They 
now  despised  them,  and  with  a  loud  cry  rushed  upon  them  in 
a  body,  hurling  at  them  stones,  arrows,  javelins,  whichever 
came  first  to  hand.  The  shout  with  which  they  accompanied 
the  attack  dismayed  the  Lacedaemonians,  who  were  unaccus- 
tomed to  this  kind  of  warfare.  Clouds  of  dust  arose  from  the 
newly-burnt  wood,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  a  man's 
seeing  what  was  before  him,  owing  to  the  showers  of  arrows 
and  stones  hurled  by  their  assailants  which  were  flying  amid 
the  dust.  And  now  the  Lacedaemonians  began  to  be  sorely 
distressed,  for  their  felt  cuirasses  did  not  protect  them  against 
the  arrows,  and  the  points  of  the  javelins  broke  off  where 
they  struck  them.  They  were  at  their  wits'  end,  not  being 
able  to  see  out  of  their  eyes  or  to  hear  the  word  of  command, 
which  was  drowned  by  the  cries  of  the  enemy.  Destruction 
was  staring  them  in  the  face,  and  they  had  no  means  or  hope 
of  deliverance. 

At  length,  finding  that  so  long  as  they  fought  in  the  same 
narrow  spot  more  and  more  of  their  men  were  wounded,  they 
closed  their  ranks  and  fell  back  on  the  last  fortification  of  the 
island,  which  was  not  far  off,  and  where  their  other  garrison 
was  stationed.  Instantly  the  light-armed  troops  of  the  Athe- 
nians pressed  upon  them  with  fresli  confidence,  redoubling 


GREEK    LITERATURE,  41 

their  cries.  Those  of  the  Lacedaemonians  who  were  caught 
by  them  on  the  way  were  killed,  but  the  greater  number 
escaped  to  the  fort  and  ranged  themselves  with  the  garrison, 
resolved  to  defend  the  heights  wherever  they  were  assailable. 
The  Athenians  followed,  but  the  strength  of  the  position 
made  it  impossible  to  surround  and  cut  them  off,  and  so  they 
attacked  them  in  face  and  tried  to  force  them  back.  For  a 
long  time,  and  indeed  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  both 
armies,  although  suffering  from  the  battle  and  thirst  and  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  held  their  own  ;  the  one  endeavoring  to  thrust 
their  opponents  from  the  high  ground,  the  other  determined 
not  to  give  way.  But  the  Lacedaemonians  now  defended 
themselves  with  greater  ease,  because  they  were  not  liable 
to  be  taken  in  flank. 

There  was  no  sign  of  the  end.  At  length  the  general  of 
the  Messenian  contingent  came  to  Cleon  and  Demosthenes, 
and  told  them  that  if  they  would  give  him  some  archers  and 
light-armed  troops,  and  let  him  find  a  path  by  which  he  might 
get  round  in  the  rear  of  the  Lacedaemonians,  he  thought  that 
he  could  force  his  way  in.  Having  obtained  his  request,  he 
started  from  a  point  out  of  sight  of  the  enemy,  and  making 
his  way  wherever  the  broken  ground  afforded  a  footing,  and 
where  the  cliff  was  so  steep  that  no  guards  had  been  set,  he 
and  his  men  with  great  difficulty  got  round  unseen  and  sud- 
denly appeared  on  the  high  ground,  striking  panic  into  the 
astonished  enemy  and  redoubling  the  courage  of  his  own 
friends  who  were  watching  for  his  reappearance.  The  Lace- 
daemonians were  now  assailed  on  both  sides,  and  to  compare 
a  smaller  thing  to  a  greater,  were  in  the  same  case  with  their 
own  countrymen  at  Thermopylae.  For  as  they  perished  when 
the  Persians  found  a  way  round  by  the  path,  so  now  the  be- 
sieged garrison  were  attacked  on  both  sides,  and  no  longer 
resisted.  The  disparity  of  numbers,  and  the  failure  of  bodily 
strength  arising  from  want  of  food,  compelled  them  to  fall 
back,  and  the  Athenians  were  at  length  masters  of  the  ap- 
proaches. 

Cleon  and  Demosthenes  saw  that  if  the  Lacedaemonians 
gave  way  one  step  more  they  would  be  destroyed  by  the  Athe- 
nians ;  so  they  stopped  the  engagement  and  proclaimed  to 


42  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

them  that  they  might,  if  they  would,  surrender  at  discretion 
to  the  Athenians  themselves  and  their  arms. 

Upon  hearing  the  proclamation  most  of  them  lowered  their 
shields  and  waved  their  hands  in  token  of  their  willingness  to 
yield.  A  trace  was  made,  and  then  Cleon  and  Demosthenes, 
on  the  part  of  the  Athenians,  and  Styphon,  the  son  of  Pharax, 
on  the  part  of  the  Lacedaemonians,  held  a  parley.  Epitadas, 
who  was  the  first  in  command,  had  been  already  slain  ;  Hip- 
pagretas,  who  was  next  in  succession,  lay  among  the  slain  for 
dead ;  and  Styphon  had  taken  the  place  of  the  two  others, 
having  been  appointed,  as  the  law  prescribed,  in  case  anything 
should  happen  to  them.  He  and  his  companions  expressed 
their  wish  to  communicate  with  the  Lacedaemonians  on  the 
mainland  as  to  the  course  which  they  should  pursue.  The 
Athenians  allowed  none  of  them  to  stir,  but  themselves  invited 
heralds  from  the  shore ;  and  after  two  or  three  communica- 
tions, the  herald  who  came  over  last  from  the  body  of  the 
army  brought  back  word,  "The  Lacedaemonians  bid  you  act 
as  you  think  best,  but  you  are  not  to  dishonor  yourselves." 
Whereupon  they  consulted  together,  and  then  gave  up  them- 
selves and  their  arms.  During  that  day  and  the  following 
night  the  Athenians  kept  guard  over  them  ;  on  the  next  day 
they  set  up  a  trophy  on  the  island  and  made  preparations  to 
sail,  distributing  the  prisoners  among  the  trierarchs.  The 
Lacedaemonians  sent  a  herald  and  conveyed  away  their  own 
dead.  Of  the  survivors  the  Spartans  numbered  about  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty.  But  few  Athenians  fell. 

Reckoned  from  the  sea-fight  to  the  final  battle  in  the 
island,  the  time  during  which  the  blockade  lasted  was  ten 
weeks  and  two  days.  For  about  three  weeks  the  Lacedae- 
monians were  supplied  with  food  while  the  Spartan  ambassa- 
dors were  gone  to  solicit  peace,  but  during  the  rest  of  this 
time  they  lived  on  what  was  brought  in  by  stealth.  A  store 
of  corn  and  other  provisions  was  found  in  the  island  at  the 
time  of  the  capture ;  for  Epitadas  the  general  had  not  served 
out  full  rations.  The  Athenians  and  Peloponnesians  now 
withdrew  their  armies  from  Pylos  and  returned  home.  And 
the  mad  promise  of  Cleon  was  fulfilled ;  for  he  did  bring  back 
the  prisoners  within  twenty  days  as  he  had  said. 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  43 


ALCIBIADES  VINDICATES  HIMSELF. 

ALCIBIADES  was  of  the  noblest  Athenian  stock,  and  being  early 
left  an  orphan  was  brought  up  under  the  guardianship  of  his  uncle,  the 
great  statesman,  Pericles.  He  was  thus  admitted  to  the  company  of 
the  celebrated  Aspasia,  whose  house  was  a  resort  for  the  most  culti- 
vated society  of  the  period.  He  also  attached  himself  for  a  time 
to  the  philosopher  Socrates,  but  rather  from  admiration  of  his  dialectic 
skill  than  from  desire  to  learn  wisdom  and  virtue.  From  boyhood  he 
had  manifested  an  aristocratic  insolence  towards  others,  old  and 
young.  His  versatile  genius  and  persuasive  talent,  as  well  as  his 
ability  in  war,  seemed  to  fit  him  to  be  a  worthy  successor  in  public 
affairs  to  his  guardian,  yet  he  destroyed  the  empire  of  his  native  city, 
by  first  urging  it  to  the  disastrous  Sicilian  expedition,  and  then,  when 
attacked  by  a  faction,  going  over  to  the  side  of  its  enemies. 

In  415  B.C.  the  Athenians,  being  at  the  height  of  their  power,  were 
requested  by  an  embassy  from  Egesta,  in  Sicily,  to  interfere  in  the  affairs 
of  that  island.  They  sent  envoys  to  ascertain  the  actual  condition, 
but  these,  being  deceived,  brought  such  a  report  that  the  assembly 
resolved  on  war.  Alcibiades,  Nicias  and  L/amachus  were  chosen  to 
command  the  expedition  of  sixty  ships.  Nicias,  an  eminent  aristo- 
cratic leader,  being  appointed  against  his  own  wish,  exerted  himself 
to  dissuade  the  people  from  engaging  in  a  distant  and  hazardous  war- 
fare. He  also  objected  to  Alcibiades,  as  being  too  rash  and  reckless 
for  command.  Alcibiades,  eager  for  the  war  as  an  opportunity  for 
glory  for  the  city  and  himself,  made  his  defence  in  the  public  assembly 
called  to  consider  the  matter. 

MOST  of  the  Athenians  who  came  forward  to  speak  were 
in  favor  of  war,  and  reluctant  to  rescind  the  vote  which  had 
been  already  passed,  although  a  few  took  the  other  side. 
The  most  enthusiastic  supporter  of  the  expedition  to  Sicily 
was  Alcibiades,  the  son  of  Cleinias;  he  was  determined  to 
oppose  Nicias,  who  was  always  his  political  enemy  and  had 
just  now  spoken  of  him  in  disparaging  terms ;  but  the  desire 
to  command  was  even  a  stronger  motive  with  him.  He  was 
hoping  that  he  might  be  the  conqueror  of  Sicily  and  Carthage  ; 
and  that  success  would  repair  his  private  fortunes,  and  gain 
him  money  as  well  as  glory.  He  had  a  great  position  among 
the  citizens  and  was  devoted  to  horse-racing  and  other  pleas- 
ures which  outran  his  means.  And  in  the  end  his  wild 
courses  went  far  to  ruin  the  Athenian  state.  For  the  people 


44  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

feared  the  extremes  to  which  he  carried  his  lawless  self-indul- 
gence, and  the  far-reaching  purposes  which  animated  him  in 
all  his  actions.  They  thought  that  he  was  aiming  at  a 
tyranny  and  set  themselves  against  him.  And  therefore, 
although  his  talents  as  a  military  commander  were  unrivaled, 
they  entrusted  the  administration  of  the  war  to  others,  because 
they  personally  objected  to  his  private  life  ;  and  so  they  speed- 
ily shipwrecked  the  state.  He  now  came  forward  and  spoke 
as  follows : 

"  I  have  a  better  right  to  command,  men  of  Athens,  than 
another;  for  as  Nicias  has  attacked  me,  I  must  begin  by 
praising  myself ;  and  E  consider  that  I  am  worthy.  Those 
doings  of  mine  for  which  I  am  so  much  cried  out  against  are 
an  honor  to  myself  and  to  my  ancestors,  and  a  solid  advan- 
tage to  my  country.  In  consequence  of  the  distinguished 
manner  in  which  I  represented  the  state  at  Olympia,  the 
other  Hellenes  formed  an  idea  of  our  power  which  even 
exceeded  the  reality,  although  they  had  previously  imagined 
that  we  were  exhausted  by  war.  I  sent  into  the  lists  seven 
chariots, — no  other  private  man  ever  did  the  like ;  I  was 
victor,  and  also  won  the  second  and  fourth  prize ;  and  I 
ordered  everything  in  a  style  worthy  of  my  victory.  The 
general  sentiment  honors  such  magnificence  ;  and  the  energy 
which  is  shown  by  it  creates  an  impression  of  power.  At 
home,  again,  whenever  I  gain  eclat  by  providing  choruses  or 
by  the  performance  of  some  other  public  duty,  although  the 
citizens  are  naturally  jealous  of  me,  to  strangers  these  acts  of 
munificence  are  a  new  argument  of  our  strength.  There  is 
some  use  in  the  folly  of  a  man  who  at  his  own  cost  benefits 
not  only  himself,  but  the  state.  And  where  is  the  injustice, 
if  I  or  any  one  who  feels  his  own  superiority  to  another 
ireruses  to  be  on  a  level  with  him?  The  unfortunate  keep 
their  misfortunes  to  themselves.  We  do  not  expect  to  be 
recognized  by  our  acquaintance  when  we  are  down  in  the 
world  ;  and  on  the  same  principle  why  should  any  one  com- 
plain when  treated  with  disdain  by  the  more  fortunate  ?  He 
who  would  have  proper  respect  shown  to  him  should  himself 
show  it  towards  others.  I  know  that  men  of  this  lofty  spirit, 
and  all  who  have  been  in  any  way  illustrious,  are  hated  while 


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GREEK    LITERATURE.  45 

they  are  alive,  by  their  equals  especially,  and  in  a  lesser 
degree  by  others  who  have  to  do  with  them ;  but  that  they 
leave  behind  them  to  after  ages  a  reputation  which  leads  even 
those  who  are  not  of  their  family  to  claim  kindred  with  them, 
and  that  they  are  the  glory  of  their  country,  which  regards 
them,  not  as  aliens  or  as  evil-doers,  but  as  her  own  children, 
of  whose  character  she  is  proud.  These  are  my  own  aspira- 
tions, and  this  is  the  reason  why  my  private  life  is  assailed ; 
but  let  me  ask  you,  whether  in  the  management  of  public 
affairs  any  man  surpasses  me.  Did  I  not,  without  involving 
you  in  any  great  danger  or  expense,  combine  the  most  power- 
ful states  of  Peloponnesus  against  the  Lacedaemonians,  whom 
I  compelled  to  stake  at  Mantinea  all  that  they  had  upon  the 
fortune  of  one  day?  And  even  to  this  hour,  although  they 
were  victorious  in  the  battle,  they  have  hardly  recovered 
courage. 

"  These  were  the  achievements  of  my  youth,  and  of  what 
is  supposed  to  be  my  monstrous  folly;  thus  did  I  by  winning 
words  conciliate  the  Peloponnesian  powers,  and  my  hearti- 
ness made  them  believe  in  me  and  follow  me.  And  now  do 
not  be  afraid  of  me  because  I  am  young,  but  while  I  am  in 
the  flower  of  my  days  and  Nicias  enjoys  the  reputation  of 
success,  use  the  services  of  us  both.  Having  determined  to 
sail,  do  not  change  your  minds  under  the  impression  that 
Sicily  is  a  great  power.  For  although  the  Sicilian  cities  are 
populous,  their  inhabitants  are  a  mixed  multitude,  and  they 
readily  give  up  old  forms  of  government  and  receive  new 
ones  from  without.  No  one  really  feels  that  he  has  a  city  of 
his  own  ;  and  so  the  individual  is  ill-provided  with  arms,  and 
the  country  has  no  regular  means  of  defence.  A  man  looks 
only  to  what  he  can  win  from  the  common  stock  by  arts  of 
speech  or  by  party  violence ;  hoping  if  he  is  overthrown,  at 
any  rate  to  carry  off  his  prize  and  enjoy  it  elsewhere.  They 
are  a  motley  crew,  who  are  never  of  one  mind  in  council,  and 
are  incapable  of  any  concert  in  action.  Every  man  is  for 
himself,  and  will  readily  come  over  to  any  one  who  makes  an 
attractive  offer ;  the  more  readily  if,  as  report  says,  they  are 
in  a  state  of  revolution.  They  boast  of  their  hoplites,  but, 
as  has  proved  to  be  the  case  in  all  Hellenic  states,  the  number 


46  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

of  them  is  grossly  exaggerated.  Hellas  has  been  singularly 
mistaken  about  her  heavy  infantry ;  and  even  in  this  war  it 
was  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  collect  enough  of  them.  The 
obstacles  then  which  will  meet  us  in  'Sicily,  judging  of  them 
from  the  information  which  I  have  received,  are  not  great ; 
indeed,  I  have  overrated  them,  for  there  will  be  many  bar- 
barians who,  through  fear  of  the  Syracusans,  will  join  us  in 
attacking  them.  And  at  home  there  is  nothing  which, 
viewed  rightly,  need  interfere  with  the  expedition.  Our 
forefathers  had  the  same  enemies  whom  we  are  now  told  that 
we  are  leaving  behind  us,  and  the  Persian  besides  ;  but  their 
strength  lay  in  the  greatness  of  their  navy,  and  by  that  and 
that  alone  they  gained  their  empire.  Never  were  the  Pelo- 
ponnesians  more  hopeless  of  success  than  at  the  present 
moment ;  and  let  them  be  ever  so  confident,  they  can  only 
invade  us  by  land,  which  they  will  equally  do  whether  we  go 
to  Sicily  or  not.  But  on  the  sea  they  cannot  hurt  us,  for  we 
shall  leave  behind  us  a  navy  equal  to  theirs. 

"What  reason  can  we  give  to  ourselves  for  hesitation? 
what  excuse  can  we  make  to  our  allies  for  denying  them  aid  ? 
We  have  sworn  to  them,  and  have  no  right  to  argue  that  they 
never  assisted  us.  In  seeking  their  alliance  we  did  not  intend 
that  they  should  come  and  help  us  here,  but  that  they  should 
harass  our  enemies  in  Sicily,  and  prevent  them  from  coming 
hither.  Like  all  other  imperial  powers,  we  have  acquired  our 
dominion  by  our  readiness  to  assist  any  one,  whether  Bar- 
barian or  Hellene,  who  may  have  invoked  our  aid.  If  we 
are  all  to  sit  and  do  nothing,  or  to  draw  distinctions  of  race 
when  our  help  is  requested,  we  shall  add  little  to  our  empire, 
and  run  a  great  risk  of  losing  it  altogether.  For  mankind 
do  not  await  the  attack  of  a  superior  power,  they  anticipate 
it.  We  cannot  cut  down  an  empire  as  we  might  a  household  ; 
but  having  once  gained  our  present  position,  we  must  keep  a 
firm  hold  upon  some,  and  contrive  occasion  against  others ; 
for  if  we  are  not  rulers  we  shall  be  subjects.  You  cannot 
afford  to  regard  inaction  in  the  same  light  as  others  might, 
unless  you  impose  a  corresponding  restriction  on  your  policy. 
Convinced  then  that  we  shall  be  most  likely  to  increase  our 
power  here  if  we  attack  our  enemies  there,  let  us  sail.  We 


LITERATURE.  47 

shall  humble  the  pride  of  the  Peloponnesians  when  they  see 
that,  scorning  the  delights  of  repose,  we  have  attacked  Sicily. 
By  the  help  of  our  acquisitions  there  we  shall  probably 
become  masters  of  all  Hellas  ;  at  any  rate  we  shall  injure  the 
Syracusans,  and  at  the  same  time  benefit  ourselves  and  our 
allies.  Whether  we  succeed  and  remain  or  depart,  in  either 
case  our  navy  will  ensure  our  safety;  for  at  sea  we  shall  be 
more  than  a  match  for  all  Sicily.  Nicias  must  not  divert  you 
from  your  purpose  by  preaching  indolence,  and  by  trying  to 
set  the  young  against  the  old ;  rather  in  your  accustomed 
order,  old  and  young  taking  counsel  together,  after  the  man- 
ner of  your  fathers  who  raised  Athens  to  this  height  of  great- 
ness, strive  to  rise  yet  higher.  Consider  that  youth  and  age 
have  no  power  unless  united ;  but  that  the  lighter  and  the 
more  exact  and  the  middle  sort  of  judgment,  when  duly 
attempered,  are  likely  to  be  most  efficient.  The  state,  if  at 
rest,  like  everything  else  will  wear  herself  out  by  internal 
friction.  Every  pursuit  which  requires  skill  will  bear  the 
impress  of  decay,  whereas  by  conflict  fresh  experience  is 
always  being  gained,  and  the  city  learns  to  defend  herself, 
not  in  theory,  but  in  practice.  My  opinion  in  short  is,  that 
a  state  used  to  activity  will  quickly  be  ruined  by  the  change 
to  inaction ;  and  that  they  of  all  men  enjoy  the  greatest 
security  who  are  truest  to  themselves  and  their  institutions 
even  when  they  are  not  the  best.'* 


OF    AU<  NATIONS. 


XENOPHON. 

XENOPHON  was  born 
at  Athens  about  B.C.  /|/H, 
according  to  some  esti- 
mates, but  more  probably 
about  43 1.  He  was  a  pu- 
pil of  Socrates,  whose 
memory  in  after  life  he 
revered  and  defended.  He 
is  also  known  in  connec- 
tion with  the  Expedition 
of  Cyrus  the  Younger  in 
401  B.C.  Having  received 
a  letter  from  his  friend 
Proxenus,  who  was  al- 
ready in  the  service  of 
Cyrus,  inviting  him  to 
join  the  expedition,  he 
submitted  the  matter  to  Socrates,  who  advised  him  to  con- 
sult the  oracle  at  Delphi.  This  he  did ;  but  merely  asked 
Apollo  by  what  sacrifices  he  might  perform  the  journey  he 
had  in  view,  and  return  in  safety.  He  at  once  obeyed  the 
oracle,  and  set  sail  to  join  Proxenus  and  Cyrus,  whom  he 
found  at  Sardis  in  Lydia,  ready  to  march  to  Upper  Asia.  He 
tells  us  that  he  was  neither  soldier,  captain,  nor  general,  but 
served  as  a  volunteer.  When  they  reached  the  little  town  of 
Cunaxa  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  they  were  opposed  by 
Artaxerxes  with  an  army  of  900,000  men.  Cyrus  with  his 
infantry,  targeteers,  and  Barbarian  troops  had  little  over 
100,000  men.  Notwithstanding  this  odds  of  nine  to  one, 
the  little  force  of  Greeks  drove  the  Barbarian  horde  into  flight 
at  the  first  onset,  but  following  too  eagerly  in  pursuit  left 
Cyrus  to  oppose  the  king's  centre.  There  the  two  brothers 
met  and  Cyrus  was  slain.  The  Barbarians  of  his  army  at 
once  submitted  to  Artaxerxes,  and  Tissaphernes,  the  Persian 
satrap,  with  unscrupulous  duplicity,  got  into  his  power  Clear- 
chus  and  four  other  generals,  with  twenty  colonels,  who 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  49 

were  all  put  to  death.  The  Greeks,  however  dismayed  at 
this  loss,  quickly  recovered  their  courage,  and  chose  new 
commanders.  Among  these  was  Xenophon,  who  now  took 
the  principal  part  in  conducting  the  retreat.  Harassed  by 
Mithridates  and  Tissaphernes,  they  pursued  their  way  through 
the  Carduchian  mountains,  over  the  highlands  of  Armenia ; 
beset  by  barbarian  enemies  on  every  hand,  exposed  to  cold 
and  hunger,  and  sudden  attacks,  they  struggled  on  until  at 
last  they  reached  the  top  of  a  mountain  where  they  came  in 
view  of  the  Euxine  Sea,  on  the  coast  of  which  were  Greek 
cities.  The  distance  traversed  in  advancing  and  retreating 
was  about  3,300  miles,  and  the  time  occupied  fifteen  months. 

This  celebrated  expedition  was  the  means  of  revealing  the 
weakness  of  Persia,  and  at  last  leading  to  the  overthrow  of 
that  empire,  which  Xenophon  declared  to  be  strong  with 
regard  to  extent  of  country  and  numbers  of  men,  but  weak 
in  the  division  of  its  forces  and  the  great  distance  to  be 
traversed  by  them  in  resisting  a  rapid  invasion.  After  mak- 
ing their  way  westward  from  Trapezus,  the  modern  Trebizond, 
those  who  survived  the  expedition  joined  the  Lacedaemonians 
in  war  against  the  Persians  in  Asia  Minor.  Xenophon  be- 
came attached  to  Agesilaus,  King  of  Sparta,  and  fought  at 
Coronea,  394  B.C.,  against  the  Thebans,  who  were  then  allies 
of  Athens.  In  consequence  of  this,  his  property  was  confis- 
cated and  he  was  driven  into  exile.  At  first  he  went  with 
Agesilaus  to  Sparta.  To  indemnify  him  for  the  loss  of  his 
property,  the  Lacedaemonians  presented  him  with  an  estate 
at  Scillus,  near  Olympia.  Here  he  lived  the  life  of  a  country 
gentleman  till  the  battle  of  Leuctra  in  371,  when  he  was 
obliged  to  take  refuge  in  Corinth. 

Xenophon  was  cosmopolitan  in  his  politics  and  in  his 
writings ;  in  his  character  he  showed  the  best  qualities  of  a 
Greek  gentleman.  His  style  is  simple,  his  language  unas- 
suming, and  throughout  all  his  works  there  is  a  manifest 
approbation  of  what  is  good,  true  and  beautiful.  He  was 
undoubtedly  a  man  of  many  excellencies,  which  may  be 
ascribed  to  his  own  happy  disposition,  his  education  under 
Socrates,  and  his  practical  improvement  of  both.  His  "Ana- 
basis" shows  the  general ;  his  political  romance,  the  "  Cyro- 
iv — 4 


50  UTERATDRE  0?  Att  NATIONS. 

paedia"  a  master  in  the  art  of  government ;  his  "Hellenica" 
a  faithful  though  dry  historian  ;  his  "Panegyric  of  Agesilaus" 
an  orator;  his  treatise  on  "Hunting"  a  sportsman  ;  and  his 
"  Memorabilia  of  Socrates  "  a  philosopher  and  friend.  Other 
works  are  somewhat  doubtfully  attributed  to  this  accom- 
plished writer,  to  whom,  for  his  sweet  and  useful  productions, 
some  ancient  critics  gave  the  title  of  "The  Attic  Bee."  In 
his  "Hellenica,"  he  carries  forward  the  history  of  Greece 
from  the  point  where  Thucydides  leaves  off,  41 1  B.C.,  to  the 
battle  of  Mantinea,  362. 

How  XENOPHON  BECAME  A  GENERAL. 

(From  the  "Anabasis.") 

XENOPHON  had  joined  the  expedition,  deceived,  indeed, 
though  not  by  Proxenus,  who  was  equally  in  the  dark  with 
the  rest  of  the  Hellenes,  not  counting  Clearchus,  as  to  the  in- 
tended attack  upon  the  king.  However,  when  they  reached 
Cilicia,  it  was  pretty  plain  to  all  that  the  expedition  was  really 
against  the  king.  Then,  though  the  majority  were  in  appre- 
hension of  the  journey,  which  was  not  at  all  to  their  minds, 
yet,  for  very  shame  of  one  another  and  Cyrus,  they  continued 
to  follow  him,  and  with  the  rest  went  Xenophon. 

And  now  in  this  season  of  perplexity,  he  too,  with  the  rest, 
was  in  sore  distress,  and  could  not  aleep ;  but  anon,  getting  a 
snatch  of  sleep,  he  had  a  dream.  It  seemed  to  him  in  a 
vision  that  there  was  a  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning,  and  a 
bolt  fell  on  his  father's  house,  and  thereupon  the  house  was  all 
in  a  blaze.  He  sprang  up  in  terror,  and  pondering  the  matter, 
decided  that  in  part  the  dream  was  good  :  in  that  he  had  seen 
a  great  light  from  Zeus,  whilst  in  the  midst  of  toil  and 
danger.  But  partly,  too,  he  feared  it,  for  evidently  it  had  come 
from  Zeus  the  king.  And  the  fire  kindled  all  around — what 
could  that  mean  but  that  he  was  hemmed  in  by  various 
perplexities,  and  so  could  not  escape  from  the  country  of  the 
king?  The  full  meaning,  however,  is  to  be  discovered  from 
what  happened  after  the  dream. 

This  is  what  took  place.  As  soon  as  he  was  fully  awake, 
the  first  clear  thought  which  came  into  his  head  was,  Why 
am  I  lying  here  ?  The  night  advances  ;  with  the  day,  it  is 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  51 

like  enough,  the  enemy  will  be  upon  us.  If  we  are  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  king,  what  is  left  us  but  to  face  the 
most  horrible  of  sights,  and  to  suffer  the  most  fearful  pains, 
and  then  to  die,  insulted,  an  ignominious  death  ?  To  defend 
ourselves — to  ward  off  that  fate — not  a  hand  stirs  :  no  one  is 
preparing,  none  cares;  but  here  we  lie,  as  though  it  were 
time  to  rest  and  take  our  ease.  I  too  !  what  am  I  waiting 
for?  a  general  to  undertake  the  work?  and  from  what  city? 
am  I  waiting  till  I  am  older  myself  and  of  riper  age  ?  Older  I 
shall  never  be,  if  to-day  I  betray  myself  to  my  enemies. 

Thereupon  he  got  up,  and  called  together  first  Proxenus's 
officers;  and  when  they  were  met,  he  said:  "Sleep,  sirs, 
I  cannot,  nor  can  you,  I  fancy,  nor  lie  here  longer,  when  I 
see  in  what  straits  we  are.  Our  enemy,  we  may  be  sure,  did 
not  open  war  upon  us  till  he  felt  he  had  everything  amply 
set ;  yet  none  of  us  shows  a  corresponding  anxiety  to  enter 
the  lists  of  battle  in  the  bravest  style. 

"And  yet,  if  we  yield  ourselves  and  fall  into  the  king's 
power,  need  we  ask  what  our  fate  will  be?  This  man,  who, 
when  his  own  brother,  the  son  of  the  same  parents,  was  dead, 
was  not  content  with  that,  but  severed  head  and  hand  from 
the  body  and  nailed  them  to  a  cross.  We,  then,  who  have  not 
even  the  tie  of  blood  in  our  favor,  but  who  marched  against 
him,  meaning  to  make  him  a  slave  instead  of  a  king — and 
to  slay  him  if  he  could :  what  is  likely  to  be  our  fate  at  his 
hands  ?  Will  he  not  go  all  lengths  so  that,  by  inflicting  on  us 
the  extreme  of  ignominy  and  torture,  he  may  rouse  in  the  rest 
of  mankind  a  terror  of  ever  marching  against  him  any  more? 
There  is  no  question  but  that  our  business  is  to  avoid ,  by  all 
means,  getting  into  his  clutches. 

"  For  my  part,  all  the  while  the  truce  lasted,  I  never  ceased 
pitying  ourselves  and  congratulating  the  king  and  those  with 
him,  as,  like  a  helpless  spectator,  I  surveyed  the  extent  and 
quality  of  their  territory,  the  plenteousness  of  their  provisions, 
the  multitude  of  their  dependents,  their  cattle,  their  gold,  and 
their  apparel.  And  then  to  turn  and  ponder  the  condition  of 
our  soldiers,  without  part  or  lot  in  these  good  things,  except 
we  bought  it ;  few,  I  knew,  had  any  longer  the  wherewithal 
to  buy,  and  yet  our  oath  held  us  down,  so  that  we  could  not 


52  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

provide  ourselves  otherwise  than  by  purchase.  I  say,  as  I 
reasoned  thus,  there  were  times  when  I  dreaded  the  truce 
rnore  than  I  now  dread  war. 

' '  Now,  however,  that  they  have  abruptly  ended  the  truce, 
there  is  an  end  also  to  their  own  insolence  and  to  our 
suspicion.  All  these  good  things  of  theirs  are  now  set  as  prizes 
for  the  combatants.  To  whichsoever  of  us  shall  prove  the 
better  men,  will  they  fall  as  rewards ;  and  the  gods  them- 
selves are  the  judges  of  the  strife.  The  gods,  who  full  surely 
will  be  on  our  side,  seeing  it  is  our  enemies  who  have  taken 
their  names  falsely ;  whilst  we,  with  much  to  lure  us,  yet  for 
our  oath's  sake,  and  the  gods  who  were  our  witnesses,  sternly 
held  aloof.  So  that,  it  seems  to  me,  we  have  a  right  to  enter 
upon  this  contest  with  much  more  heart  than  our  foes  ;  and 
further,  we  are  possessed  of  bodies  more  capable  than  theirs 
of  bearing  cold  and  heat  and  labor  ;  souls,  too,  we  have, 
by  the  help  of  heaven,  better  and  braver  ;  nay,  the  men  them- 
selves are  more  vulnerable,  more  mortal,  than  ourselves,  if  so 
be  the  gods  vouchsafe  to  give  us  victory  once  again. 

"  Howbeit,  for  I  doubt  not  elsewhere  similar  reflections 
are  being  made,  whatsoever  betide,  let  us  not,  in  heaven's 
name,  wait  for  others  to  come  and  challenge  us  to  noble  deeds  ; 
let  us  rather  take  the  lead  in  stimulating  the  rest  to  valor. 
Show  yourselves  to  be  the  bravest  of  officers,  and  among 
generals  the  worthiest  to  command.  For  myself,  if  you 
choose  to  start  forwards  on  this  quest,  I  will  follow  ;  or,  if  you 
bid  me  lead  you,  my  age  shall  be  no  excuse  to  stand  between 
me  and  your  orders.  At  least  I  am  of  full  age,  I  take  it,  to 
avert  misfortune  from  my  own  head." 

Such  were  the  speaker's  words  ;  and  Proxenus's  officers, 
when  they  heard,  all,  with  one  exception,  called  upon  him  to 
put  himself  at  their  head. 

[They  then  called  a  meeting  of  all  the  surviving  officers,  which 
assembled  near  midnight.  New  generals  were  chosen,  Cheirisophus 
the  Spartan  took  command  of  the  van,  and  Xenophon  of  the  rear 
guard.] 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  53 


THE  TEN  THOUSAND  REACH  THE  SEA. 

IN  four  days  they  reached  a  large  and  prosperous  well- 
populated  city,  which  went  by  the  name  of  Gymnias,  from 
which  the  governor  of  the  country  sent  them  a  guide  to  lead 
them  through  a  district  hostile  to  his  own.  This  guide  told 
them  that  within  five  days  he  would  lead  them  to  a  place 
from  which  they  would  see  the  sea,  "and,"  he  added,  "if  I 
fail  of  my  word,  you  are  free  to  take  my  life."  Accordingly 
he  put  himself  at  their  head  ;  but  he  no  sooner  set  foot  on  the 
country  hostile  to  himself  than  he  fell  to  encouraging  them 
to  burn  and  harry  the  land  ;  indeed  his  exhortations  were  so 
earnest,  it  was  plain  that  it  was  for  this  he  had  come,  and  not 
out  of  the  good-will  he  bore  the  Hellenes. 

On  the  fifth  day  they  reached  the  mountain,  the  name  of 
which  was  Theches.  No  sooner  had  the  men  in  front 
ascended  it  and  caught  sight  of  the  sea  than  a  great  cry  arose, 
and  Xenophon,  with  the  rearguard,  catching  the  sound  of  it, 
conjectured  that  another  set  of  enemies  must  surely  be  attack- 
ing in  front ;  for  they  were  followed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country,  which  was  all  aflame ;  indeed  the  rearguard  had  killed 
some  and  captured  others  alive  by  laying  an  ambuscade  ;  they 
had  taken  also  about  twenty  wicker  shields,  covered  with  the 
raw  hides  of  shaggy  oxen. 

But  as  the  shout  became  louder  and  nearer,  and  those  who 
from  time  to  time  came  up,  began  racing  at  the  top  of  their 
speed  towards  the  shouters,  and  the  shouting  continually  re- 
commenced with  yet  greater  volume  as  the  numbers  increased, 
Xenophon  settled  in  his  mind  that  something  extraordinary 
must  have  happened,  so  he  mounted  his  horse,  and  taking 
with  him  Lycius  and  the  cavalry,  he  galloped  to  the  rescue. 
Presently  they  could  hear  the  soldiers  shouting  and  passing  on 
the  joyful  word,  The  sea  !  the  sea  ! 

Thereupon  they  began  running,  rearguard  and  all,  and  the 
baggage  animals  and  horses  came  galloping  up.  But  when 
they  had  treached  the  summit,  then  indeed  they  fell  to  em- 
bracing one  another — generals  and  officers  and  all — and  the 
tears  trickled  down  their  cheeks.  And  on  a  sudden,  some 


54  UTERATURE  OF  AI,!*  NATIONS. 

one,  whoever  it  was,  having  passed  down  the  order,  the  sol- 
diers began  bringing  stones  and  erecting  a  great  cairn,  where- 
on they  dedicated  a  host  of  untanned  skins,  and  staves,  and  cap- 
tured wicker  shields,  and  with  his  own  hand  the  guide  hacked 
the  shields  to  pieces,  inviting  the  rest  to  follow  his  example. 
After  this  the  Hellenes  dismissed  the  guide  with  a  present 
raised  from  the  common  store,  to  wit,  a  horse,  a  silver  bowl, 
a  Persian  dress,  and  ten  darics  ;  but  what  he  most  begged  to 
have  were  their  rings,  and  of  these  he  got  several  from  the 
soldiers.  So,  after  pointing  out  to  them  a  village  where  they 
would  find  quarters,  and  the  road  by  which  they  would  pro- 
ceed towards  the  land  of  the  Macrones,  as  evening  fell,  he 
turned  his  back  upon  them  in  the  night  and  was  gone. 

From  this  point  the  Hellenes  inarched  through  the 
country  of  the  Macrones  three  stages  of  ten  parasangs,  and 
on  the  first  day  they  reached  the  river,  which  formed  the 
boundary  between  the  land  of  the  Macrones  and  the  land 
of  the  Scythenians.  Above  them,  on  their  right,  they  had  a 
country  of  the  sternest  and  ruggedeet  character,  and  on  their 
left  another  river,  into  which  the  frontier  river  discharges 
itself,  and  which  they  must  cross.  This  was  thickly  fringed 
with  trees  which,  though  not  of  any  great  bulk,  were  closely 
packed.  As  soon  as  they  came  up  to  them,  the  Hellenes  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  them  down  in  their  haste  to  get  out  of  the  place 
as  soon  as  possible.  But  the  Macrones,  armed  with  wicker 
shields  and  lances  and  hair  tunics,  were  already  drawn  up  to 
receive  them  immediately  opposite  the  crossing.  They  were 
cheering  one  another  on,  and  kept  up  a  steady  pelt  of  stones 
into  the  river,  though  they  failed  to  reach  the  other  side  or 
do  any  harm. 

At  this  juncture  one  of  the  light  infantry  came  up  to  Xen- 
ophon;  he  had  been,  he  said,  a  slave  in  Athens,  and  he 
wished  to  tell  him  that  he  recognized  the  speech  of  these  peo- 
ple. "  I  think,"  said  he,  "this  must  be  my  native  country, 
and  if  there  is  no  objection  I  will  have  a  talk  with  them." 
uNo  objection  at  all,"  replied  Xenophon,  "pray  talk  to  them, 
and  ask  them  first  who  they  are."  In  answer  to  this  question 
they  said,  "they  were  Macrones."  "Well,  then,"  said  he, 
"ask  them  why  they  are  drawn  up  in  battle  and  want  to  fight 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  55 

with  us."  They  answered,  "Because  you  are  invading  our 
country."  The  generals  bade  him  say  :  "If  so,  it  is  with  no 
intention,  certainly,  of  doing  it  or  you  any  harm  :  but  we  have 
been  at  war  with  the  king,  and  are  now  returning  to  Hellas, 
and  all  we  want  is  to  reach  the  sea."  The  others  asked, 
"Were  they  willing  to  give  them  pledges  to  that  effect?" 
They  replied:  "Yes,  they  were  ready  to  give  and  receive 
pledges  to  that  effect. ' '  Then  the  Macrones  gave  a  barbaric 
lance  to  the  Hellenes,  and  the  Hellenes  a  Hellenic  lance  to 
them:  "for  these,"  they  said,  "would  serve  as  pledges,"  and 
both  sides  called  upon  the  gods  to  witness. 

After  the  pledges  were  exchanged,  the  Macrones  fell  to 
vigorously,  hewing  down  trees  and  constructing  a  road  to 
help  them  across,  mingling  freely  with  the  Hellenes  and 
fraternizing  in  their  midst,  and  they  afforded  them  as  good  a 
market  as  they  could,  and  for  three  days  conducted  them  on 
their  march,  until  they  had  brought  them  safely  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  Colchians.  At  this  point  they  were  confronted  by 
a  great  mountain  chain,  which,  however,  was  accessible,  and 
on  it  the  Colchians  were  drawn  up  for  battle.  In  the  first 
instance,  the  Hellenes  drew  up  opposite  in  line  of  battle,  as 
though  they  were  minded  to  assault  the  hill  in  that  order ; 
but  afterwards  the  generals  determined  to  hold  a  council  of 
war,  and  consider  how  to  make  the  fairest  fight. 

Accordingly  Xenophon  said:  "I  am  not  for  advancing  in 
line,  but  advise  to  form  companies  by  columns.  To  begin 
with,  the  line,"  he  urged,  "would  be  scattered  and  thrown 
into  disorder  at  once ;  for  we  shall  find  the  mountain  full  of 
inequalities,  it  will  be  pathless  here  and  easy  to  traverse  there. 
The  mere  fact  of  first  having  formed  in  line,  and  then  seeing 
the  line  thrown  into  disorder,  must  exercise  a  disheartening 
effect.  Again,  if  we  advance  several  deep,  the  enemy  will 
none  the  less  overlap  us,  and  turn  their  superfluous  numbers 
to  account  as  best  they  like ;  while,  if  we  march  in  shallow 
order,  we  may  fully  expect  our  line  to  be  cut  through  and 
through  by  the  thick  rain  of  missiles  and  rush  of  men,  and  if 
this  happen  anywhere  along  the  line,  the  whole  line  will 
equally  suffer.  No ;  my  notion  is  to  form  columns  by  com- 
panies, covering  ground  sufficient  with  spaces  between  the 


56  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

companies  to  allow  the  last  companies  of  each  flank  to  be 
outside  the  enemy's  flanks.  Thus  we  shall  with  our  extreme 
companies  be  outside  the  enemy's  line,  and  the  best  men  at 
the  head  of  their  columns  will  lead  the  attack,  and  every 
company  will  pick  its  way  where  the  ground  is  easy  ;  also  it 
will  be  difficult  for  the  enemy  to  force  his  way  into  the  inter- 
vening spaces,  when  there  are  companies  on  both  sides ;  nor 
will  it  be  easy  for  him  to  cut  in  twain  any  individual  com- 
pany marching  in  column.  If,  too,  any  particular  company 
should  be  pressed,  the  neighboring  company  will  come  to  the 
rescue,  or  if  at  any  point  any  single  company  succeed  in 
reaching  the  height,  from  that  moment  not  one  man  of  the 
enemy  will  stand  his  ground. ' ' 

This  proposal  was  carried,  and  they  formed  into  columns 
by  companies.  Then  Xenophon,  returning  from  the  right 
wing  to  the  left,  addressed  the  soldiers.  "Men,"  he  said, 
"these  men  whom  you  see  in  front  of  you  are  the  sole  obsta- 
cles still  interposed  between  us  and  the  haven  of  our  hopes 
so  long  deferred.  We  shall  swallow  them  up  raw,  if  we  can." 
The  several  divisions  fell  into  position,  the  companies  were 
formed  into  columns,  and  the  result  was  a  total  of  something 
like  eighty  companies  of  heavy  infantry,  each  company  con- 
sisting, on  an  average,  of  a  hundred  men.  The  light  in- 
fantry and  bowmen  were  arranged  in  three  divisions — two 
outside  to  support  the  left  and  the  right  respectively,  and  the 
third  in  the  centre — each  division  consisting  of  about  six 
hundred  men.  Before  starting,  the  generals  passed  the  order 
to  offer  prayer  ;  and  with  the  prayer  and  battle-hymn  rising 
from  their  lips  they  commenced  their  advance.  Cheirisophus 
and  Xenophon,  and  the  light  infantry  with  them,  advanced 
outside  the  enemy's  line  to  right  and  left,  and  the  enemy, 
seeing  their  advance,  made  an  effort  to  keep  parallel  and 
confront  them  ;  but  in  order  to  do  so,  as  he  extended  partly  to 
right  and  partly  to  left,  he  was  pulled  to  pieces,  and  there 
was  a  large  space  or  hollow  left  in  the  centre  of  his  line. 
Seeing  them  separate  thus,  the  light  infantry  attached  to  the 
Arcadian  battalion,  under  command  of  ^schines,  an  Acar- 
nanian,  mistook  the  movement  for  flight,  and  with  a  loud 
shout  rushed  on,  and  these  were  the  first  to  scale  the  moun- 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  57 

tain  summit ;  but  they  were  closely  followed  by  the  Arcadian 
heavy  infantry,  under  command  of  Cleanor  of  Orchomenus. 
When  they  began  running  in  that  way,  the  enemy  stood 
their  ground  no  longer,  but  betook  themselves  to  flight,  one 
in  one  direction,  one  in  another,  and  the  Hellenes  scaled  the 
hill  and  found  quarters  in  numerous  villages  which  contained 
supplies  in  abundance. 

From  this  place  they  marched  on  two  stages — seven  para- 
sangs — and  reached  the  sea  at  Trapezus,  a  populous  Hellenic 
city  on  the  Euxine  Sea,  a  colony  of  the  Sinopeans,  in  the  ter- 
ritory of  the  Colchians.  Here  they  halted  about  thirty  days 
in  the  villages  of  the  Colchians,  which  they  used  as  a  base  of 
operations  to  ravage  the  whole  territory  of  Colchis.  The 
men  of  Trapezus  supplied  the  army  with  a  market,  entertained 
them,  and  gave  them,  as  gifts  of  hospitality,  oxen  and  wheat 
and  wine.  Further,  they  negotiated  with  them  in  behalf  of 
their  neighbors  the  Colchians,  who  dwelt  in  the  plain  for  the 
most  part,  and  from  this  folk  also  came  gifts  of  hospitality  in 
the  shape  of  cattle.  And  now  the  Hellenes  made  preparation 
for  the  sacrifice  which  they  had  vowed,  and  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  cattle  came  in  for  them  to  offer  thank-offerings  for  safe 
guidance  to  Zeus  the  Saviour,  and  to  Heracles,  and  to  the 
other  gods,  according  to  their  vows. 

GOBRYAS  THE   ASSYRIAN. 
(From  the  "  Cyropaedia.") 

GOBRYAS,  an  Assyrian,  and  a  man  in  years,  arrived  on 
horseback,  attended  by  some  cavalry,  consisting  of  his  own 
dependents  ;  and  they  were  all  provided  with  arms  proper  for 
cavalry.  They  that  had  been  appointed  to  receive  the  arms 
bade  them  deliver  their  lances  that  they  might  burn  them, 
as  they  had  done  others  before ;  but  Gobryas  said  that  he 
desired  first  to  see  Cyrus.  Then  they  that  attended  this  ser- 
vice left  the  other  horsemen  behind,  and  conducted  Gobryas 
to  Cyrus  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  Cyrus,  he  spoke  thus : 

"  My  sovereign  lord,  I  am  by  birth  an  Assyrian  ;  I  have  a 
strong  fortress  in  my  possession,  and  have  the  command  of  a 
large  territory:  I  furnished  the  Assyrian  king  with  a  thou- 


58  LITERATURE  OP  Ail,  NATIONS. 

sand  horse,  and  was  very  much  his  friend  :  but  since  he,  who 
was  an  excellent  man,  has  lost  his  life  in  the  war  against  you, 
and  since  his  son,  who  is  my  greatest  enemy,  now  possesses 
the  government,  I  come  and  throw  myself  at  your  feet  as  a 
supplicant,  and  give  myself  to  you  as  a  servant  and  assistant 
in  the  war.  I  beg  you  to  be  my  revenger :  I  make  you  my 
son  as  far  as  it  is  possible.  With  respect  to  male  issue,  I  am 
childless ;  for  he,  O  sovereign !  that  was  my  only  one,  an 
excellent  youth,  who  loved  and  honored  me  to  as  great  a 
degree  as  son  could  do  to  make  a  father  happy ;  him  did  the 
present  king  (the  late  king,  the  father  of  the  present,  having 
sent  for  my  son,  as  intending  to  give  him  his  daughter,  and 
I  sent  him  away,  proud  that  I  should  see  my  son  married  to 
the  daughter  of  the  king)  invite  to  hunt  with  him,  as  with  a 
friend  ;  and,  on  a  bear  appearing  in  view,  they  both  pursued. 
The  present  king,  having  thrown  his  javelin,  missed  his  aim. 
Oh  that  it  had  not  happened  so !  and  my  son  making  his 
throw — unhappy  thing! — brought  the  bear  to  the  ground. 
He  was  then  enraged,  but  kept  his  envy  concealed ;  but 
then,  again,  a  lion  falling  in  their  way,  he  again  missed  ;  and 
that  it  should  happen  so  to  him  I  do  not  think  at  all  wonder- 
ful ;  but  my  son,  again  hitting  his  mark,  killed  the  lion,  and 
said,  '  I  have  twice  thrown  single  javelins,  and  brought  the 
beasts  both  times  to  the  ground.'  On  this  the  impious  wretch 
restrained  his  malice  no  longer,  but,  snatching  a  lance  from 
one  of  his  followers,  struck  it  into  his  breast,  and  took  away 
the  life  of  my  dear  and  only  son  !  Then  I,  miserable  man  ! 
brought  him  away  a  corpse  instead  of  a  bridegroom ;  and  I, 
who  am  of  these  years,  buried  him,  my  excellent  and  beloved 
son,  a  youth  but  just  bearded.  His  murderer,  as  if  he  had 
destroyed  an  enemy,  has  never  yet  appeared  to  have  had  any 
remorse ;  nor  has  he,  in  amends  for  the  vile  action,  ever 
vouchsafed  to  pay  any  honor  to  him  who  is  now  under  the 
ground.  His  father,  indeed,  had  compassion,  and  plainly 
appeared  to  join  in  affliction  with  me  at  this  misfortune ; 
therefore,  had  he  lived,  I  had  never  applied  to  you  to  his 
injury ;  for  I  had  received  a  great  many  instances  of 
friendship  from  him,  and  I  served  him.  But  since  the  gov- 
ernment has  fallen  to  the  murderer  of  my  son,  I  can  never 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  59 

possibly  bear  him  the  least  good-will ;  nor  can  he,  I  know 
very  well,  ever  reckon  me  his  friend ;  for  he  knows  how  I 
stand  affected  towards  him ;  how  I,  who  lived  with  that  joy 
and  satisfaction  before,  must  now  stand  in  this  destitute  con- 
dition, passing  my  old  age  in  sorrow.  If  you  receive  me, 
therefore,  and  I  can  have  hopes  of  obtaining,  by  your  means, 
a  revenge  for  my  dear  son,  I  shall  think  I  arise  again  to  new 
life ;  I  shall  neither  be  ashamed  to  live,  nor,  if  I  die,  do  I 
think  that  I  shall  end  my  days  with  grief." 

Thus  he  spoke.  And  Cyrus  replied,  "If  you  make  it 
appear,  Gobryas,  that  you  really  are  in  that  disposition 
towards  us  that  you  express,  I  receive  you  as  our  supplicant, 
and,  with  the  help  of  the  gods,  I  promise  to  revenge  you  on 
the  murderer.  But  tell  me,"  said  he,  "if  we  effect  these 
things  for  you,  and  allow  you  to  hold  your  fortress,  your 
territory,  and  your  arms,  and  the  power  that  you  had  before, 
what  service  will  you  do  for  us  in  return  for  these  things?" 
He  then  said,  "  My  fortress  I  will  yield  you  for  your  habita- 
tion whenever  you  please  ;  the  same  tribute  for  my  territory 
that  I  used  to  pay  to  him  I  will  pay  to  you ;  wherever  you 
shall  make  war  I  will  attend  you  in  the  service,  with  the 
forces  of  my  territory:  and  I  have,  besides,"  said  he,  "a 
maiden  daughter,  that  I  tenderly  love,  just  of  an  age  for 
marriage ;  one  that  I  formerly  reckoned  I  brought  up  as  a 
wife  for  the  person  now  reigning ;  but  she  herself  has  now 
begged  me,  with  many  tears  and  sighs,  not  to  give  her  to  the 
murderer  of  her  brother ;  and  I  join  with  her  in  opinion.  I 
here  give  you  leave  to  deal  with  her  as  I  appear  to  deal  by 
you."  Then  Cyrus  said,  "On  these  terms,"  said  he,  "with 
truth  and  sincerity  do  I  give  you  my  right  hand,  and  accept 
of  yours.  Let  the  gods  be  witnesses  between  us!"  When 
these  things  had  passed,  he  bade  Gobryas  go  and  keep  his 
arms ;  and  he  asked  him  at  what  distance  his  habitation  was , 
it  being  his  intention  to  go  thither.  He  then  said,  "  If  you 
march  to-morrow  morning  you  may  quarter  with  us  the  next 
day."  So  Gobryas  went  away  and  left  a  guide. 

On  the  second  day  towards  the  evening  they  reached  the 
habitation  of  Gobryas.  They  saw  it  to  be  an  exceeding 
strong  fortress,  and  that  all  things  were  provided  on  the  walls 


Go  LITERATURE  OF  ALI,  NATIONS. 

proper  for  a  vigorous  defence ;  and  they  saw  abundance  of 
oxen  and  sheep  brought  under  the  fortifications.  Gobryas 
then,  sending  to  Cyrus,  bade  him  ride  round,  and  see  where 
the  access  was  most  easy,  and  send  in  to  him  some  of  those 
that  he  confided  in,  who,  having  seen  how  things  stood 
within,  might  give  him  an  account  of  them.  So  Cyrus, 
desiring  in  reality  to  see  if  the  fortress  might  be  taken  on 
any  side,  or  whether  Gobryas  might  be  discovered  to  be  false, 
rode  round  on  every  side,  but  saw  every  part  too  strong  to  be 
approached.  Those  that  Cyrus  sent  in  to  Gobryas  brought 
him  an  account  that  there  was  such  plenty  of  all  good  things 
within  as  could  not,  as  they  thought,  even  in  the  age  of  a 
man,  fail  the  people  that  were  there.  Cyrus  was  under  con- 
cern about  what  all  this  might  mean.  But  Gobryas  himself 
came  out  to  him,  and  brought  out  all  his  men ;  some  carry- 
ing wine,  some  meal,  and  others  driving  oxen,  sheep,  hogs, 
and  goats  ;  and  of  every  thing  that  was  eatable  they  brought 
sufficient  to  furnish  a  handsome  supper  for  the  whole  army 
that  was  with  Cyrus.  They  that  were  appointed  to  this 
service  made  distribution  of  all  these  things,  and  they  all 
supped.  But  Gobryas,  when  all  his  men  were  come  out,  bade 
Cyrus  enter  in  the  manner  that  he  thought  the  most  safe. 
Cyrus,  therefore,  sending  before  certain  people  to  view  and 
search  into  things  and  a  force  with  them,  then  entered  him- 
self ;  and  when  he  was  got  in,  keeping  the  gates  open,  he 
summoned  all  his  friends  and  the  commanders  that  .had 
attended  him ;  and  when  they  were  come  in,  Gobryas,  pro- 
ducing cups  of  gold,  and  vessels  of  various  kinds,  all  manner 
of  furniture,  and  apparel,  darics  without  number,  and  mag- 
nificent things  of  all  kinds ;  and  at  last  bringing  out  his 
daughter  (who  was  astonishingly  beautiful  and  tall,  but  in 
affliction  for  the  death  of  her  brother),  spoke  thus : 

"  Cyrus,  all  these  treasures  I  give  you,  and  this  daughter 
of  mine  I  intrust  you  with  to  dispose  of  as  you  think  fit : 
but  we  are  both  of  us  your  supplicants :  I,  before,  that  you 
would  be  the  revenger  of  my  son :  and  she,  now,  that  you 
would  be  the  revenger  of  her  brother." 

Cyrus  to  this  said,  "I  promised  you  then,  that,  if  you 
were  not  false  to  us,  I  would  revenge  you  to  the  utmost  of 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  6 1 

my  power ;  and  now  that  I  find  you  true  to  us,  I  am  under 
the  obligation  of  that  promise.  And  I  now  promise  her, 
with  the  help  of  the  gods,  to  perform  it.  These  treasures," 
said  he,  "I  accept,  but  give  them  to  this  your  daughter,  and 
to  the  man  that  shall  marry  her.  But  I  have  received  one 
present  from  you  with  more  pleasure  than  I  should  have  with 
the  treasures  of  Babylon,  where  there  is  abundance  ;  or  even 
with  those  of  the  whole  world,  were  they  to  be  exchanged  for 
this  that  you  have  now  presented  me  with." 

Gobryas,  wondering  what  it  should  be,  and  suspecting 
that  he  meant  his  daughter,  asked  him  thus:  "O  Cyrus!" 
said  he,  "  what  is  it?" 

Then  Cyrus  replied,  "Gobryas,"  said  he,  "it  is  this.  I 
believe  there  may  be  abundance  of  men  that  would  not  be 
guilty  either  of  impiety,  injustice,  or  falsehood ;  and  yet, 
because  nobody  will  throw  either  treasures,  or  power,  or 
strong  fortresses,  or  lovely  children  in  their  way,  die  before 
it  comes  to  appear  what  they  were.  But  you,  by  having  now 
put  into  my  hands  both  strong  fortresses,  and  riches  of  all 
kinds,  your  whole  force,  and  your  daughter,  who  is  so  valua- 
ble a  possession,  have  made  me  clearly  appear  to  all  men  to 
be  one  that  would  neither  be  guilty  of  impiety  towards 
friends  that  receive  and  entertain  me,  nor  of  injustice  for  the 
sake  of  treasure,  nor  willingly  false  to  faith  in  compacts. 
This,  therefore,  be  assured,  I  shall  not  forget,  while  I  am 
a  just  man,  and  while  as  such  I  receive  the  applause  of  men, 
but  I  shall  endeavor  to  make  you  returns  of  honor  in  all 
things  great  and  noble :  and  do  not  be  afraid  of  wanting  a 
husband  for  your  daughter,  and  such  a  one  as  shall  be  worthy 
of  her :  for  I  have  many  excellent  friends,  and,  among  them, 
whoever  it  is  that  marries  her,  whether  he  will  have  either  as 
much  treasure  as  you  have  given,  or  a  great  deal  more,  I  am 
not  able  to  say;  but  be  assured  that  there  are  some  of  them 
who,  for  all  the  treasures  you  have  bestowed,  do  not  on  that 
account  esteem  you  one  jot  the  more.  But  they  are  at  this 
time  my  rivals ;  they  supplicate  all  the  gods  that  they  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  showing  themselves  that  they  are  not 
less  faithful  to  their  friends  than  I  am :  that,  while  alive, 
they  will  never  yield  to  their  enemies,  unless  some  god  should 


62  LITERATURE  OF  AI,I<  NATIONS. 

blast  tlieir  endeavors  ;  and  that  for  virtue  and  good  reputa- 
tion, they  would  not  accept  of  all  the  treasures  of  the  Syrians 
and  Assyrians  added  to  yours.  Such  men,  be  assured,  are 
sitting  here." 

Gobryas,  smiling  at  this,  "  By  the  gods  ! ' '  said  he,  "  Cyrus, 
pray  show  me  where  these  men  are,  that  I  may  beg  one  of 
them  of  you  to  be  my  son."  "Do  not  trouble  yourself," 
said  he  ;  "  it  will  not  be  at  all  necessary  for  you  to  inquire 
of  me.  If  you  will  but  attend  us,  you  yourself  will  be  able 
to  show  them  to  anybody  else." 

And  having  said  this,  he  took  Gobryas  by  the  right  hand, 
rose,  went  out,  and  brought  out  all  that  were  with  him  ;  and 
though  Gobryas  repeatedly  desired  him  to  take  his  supper 
within  the  fortress,  yet  he  would  not  do  it,  but  supped  in  the 
carnp,  and  took  Gobryas  to  sup  with  him. 

ARASPES  AND  PANTHEA. 
(From  the  "  Cyropsedia.") 

THE  Medes  delivered  to  the  magi  such  things  as  they  had 
said  were  to  be  chosen  for  the  gods.  And  they  had  chosen  for 
Cyrus  a  most  beautiful  tent ;  a  Susian  woman,  that  was  said 
to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  all  Asia ;  and  two  other 
women  that  were  the  finest  singers.  And  they  chose  the  same 
things  over  again  for  Cyaxares.  They  had  fully  supplied 
themselves  with  all  such  things  as  they  wanted,  that  they 
might  be  in  want  of  nothing  in  the  course  of  their  service  in 
the  war ;  for  there  were  all  things  in  great  abundance. 

Cyrus,  then  calling  to  him  Araspes  the  Mede  (who  had 
been  his  companion  from  a  boy,  to  whom  he  gave  the  Median 
robe,  that  he  himself  put  off  when  he  left  Astyages  and 
departed  for  Persia),  commanded  him  to  keep  the  woman  and 
tent  for  him.  This  woman  was  wife  of  Abradatas,  king  of 
the  Susians.  And  when  the  camp  of  the  Assyrians  was 
taken  her  husband  was  not  in  the  camp,  but  was  gone  on  an 
embassy  to  the  king  of  the  Bactrians.  The  Assyrians  had 
sent  him  to  treat  of  an  alliance  between  them ;  for  he  hap- 
pened to  have  contracted  a  friendship  with  the  king  of  the 
Bactrians.  This  woman,  therefore,  Cyrus  ordered  Araspes  to 
keep  till  such  time  as  he  took  her  himself. 


GREEK:  LITERATURE.  63 

But  Araspes,  having  received  his  command,  asked  him 
this  question:  "Cyrus,"  said  he,  "have  you  seen  this 
woman  that  you  bid  me  keep?"  "No,"  said  he,  "I 
have  not."  "But  I  did,"  said  he,  "when  we  chose  her 
for  you.  Indeed,  when  we  first  entered  her  tent  we  did 
not  know  her ;  for  she  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  all  her 
women  servants  round  her,  and  was  dressed  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  her  servants  were  ;  but  when  we  looked  around,  being 
desirous  to  know  which  was  the  mistress,  she  immediately 
appeared  to  excel  all  the  others,  though  she  was  sitting  with 
a  veil  over  her,  and  looking  down  on  the  ground.  When  we 
bade  her  rise,  she  and  all  the  servants  round  her  rose.  Here 
then  she  excelled  first  in  stature,  then  in  strength,  and  grace, 
and  beautiful  shape,  though  she  was  standing  in  a  dejected 
posture,  and  tears  appeared  to  have  fallen  from  her  eyes,  some 
on  her  clothes,  and  some  at  her  feet.  As  soon  as  the  eldest 
among  us  had  said  to  her,  '  Take  courage,  woman  ;  we  have 
heard  that  your  husband  is  indeed  an  excellent  man,  but  we  , 
now  choose  you  out  for  a  man  that,  be  it  known  to  you,  is 
not  inferior  to  him,  either  in  person,  in  understanding,  or  in 
power ;  but,  as  we  think,  if  there  be  a  man  in  the  world  that 
deserves  admiration,  Cyrus  does,  and  to  him  henceforward 
you  shall  belong. '  As  soon  as  the  woman  heard  this  she  tore 
down  her  robe,  and  set  up  a  lamentable  cry,  and  her  servants 
cried  out  at  the  same  time  with  her.  On  this  most  part  of 
her  face  was  disclosed,  and  her  neck  and  hands  appeared. 
And  be  it  known  to  you,  Cyrus,"  said  he,  "that  I,  and  the 
rest  that  saw  her,  all  thought  that  never  yet  was  produced, 
or  born  of  mortals,  such  a  woman,  throughout  all  Asia.  And 
by  all  means,"  said  he,  "you  likewise  shall  see  her." 

Then  Cyrus  said,  ' '  No,  not  I ;  and  much  the  less,  if  she 
be  such  a  one  as  you  say."  "Why  so?"  said  the  young 
man.  "Because,"  said  he,  "if  on  hearing  now  from  you 
that  she  is  handsome,  I  am  persuaded  to  go  and  see  her  at  a 
time  that  I  have  not  much  leisure,  I  am  afraid  that  she  will 
much  more  easily  persuade  me  to  go  and  see  her  again  ;  and 
after  that  perhaps  I  may  neglect  what  I  am  to  do,  and  sit 
gazing  at  her."  The  young  man  then  laughed,  and  said, 
"And  do  you  think,  Cyrus,  that  the  beauty  of  a  human  crea- 


64  LITERATURE  OF  ALI,  NATIONS. 

ture  can  necessitate  one,  against  his  will,  to  act  contrary  to 
what  is  best?"  "If  this  were  naturally  so,"  said  he,  "we 
should  be  all  under  the  same  necessity.  You  see  how  fire 
burns  all  people  alike ;  for  such  is  the  nature  of  it.  But  of 
beauties,  some  inspire  people  with  love,  and  some  do  not ; 
one  loves  one,  and  another  another;  for  it  is  a  voluntary 
thing,  and  every  one  loves  those  that  he  pleases.  A  brother 
does  not  fall  in  love  with  a  sister,  but  somebody  else  does ; 
nor  is  a  father  in  love  with  a  daughter,  but  some  other  person 
is.  Fear  and  the  law  are  a  sufficient  bar  to  love.  If,  indeed, ' ' 
said  he,  "the  law  should  enjoin  that  they  who  did  not  eat 
should  not  be  hungry,  and  that  they  who  did  not  drink  should 
not  be  thirsty;  that  men  should  not  be  cold  in  the  winter, 
nor  hot  in  the  summer ;  no  law  in  the  world  could  make  men 
submit  to  these  decisions,  for  by  nature  they  are  subject  to 
these  things.  But  love  is  a  voluntary  thing,  and  every  one 
loves  those  that  suit  him,  just  as  he  does  his  clothes  or  his 
shoes.  How  comes  it  to  pass  then,"  said  Cyrus,  "if  to  love 
be  a  voluntary  thing,  that  we  cannot  give  it  over  when  we 
will?  For  I  have  seen  people,"  said  he,  "in  tears  for  grief, 
on  account  of  love ;  slaves  to  those  they  were  in  love  with, 
and  yet  thought  slavery  a  very  great  evil  before  they  were  in 
love ;  giving  away  many  things  that  they  were  never  the  bet- 
ter for  parting  with  ;  wishing  to  be  rid  of  love,  as  they  would 
of  any  other  distemper,  and  yet  not  able  to  get  rid  of  it ;  but 
bound  down  by  it,  as  by  a  stronger  tie  of  necessity  than  if 
they  were  bound  in  iron  chains !  They  give  themselves  up, 
therefore,  to  those  they  love,  to  serve  them  in  many  odd  and 
unaccountable  ways  ;  yet,  with  all  their  sufferings,  they  never 
attempt  making  their  escape,  but  keep  continual  watch  on 
their  loves,  lest  they  should  escape  from  them." 

The  young  man  to  this  said,  "There  are  people,  indeed, 
that  do  these  things;  but,"  said  he,  "they  are  miserable 
wretches;  and  this  I  believe  is  the  reason  why  they  are 
always  wishing  themselves  dead,  as  being  wretched  and 
unhappy;  and  though  there  are  ten  thousand  ways  of  part- 
ing with  life,  yet  they  do  not  part  with  it.  Just  such  wretches 
as  these  are  they  that  attempt  thefts,  and  will  not  abstain  from 
what  belongs  to  others ;  but  when  they  have  plundered  or 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  65 

stolen  any  thing,  you  see,"  said  he,  "that  you  are  the  first 
that  accuse  the  thief  and  the  plunderer,  as  reckoning  theft  to 
be  no  such  fatal,  necessary  thing,  and  you  do  not  pardon,  but 
punish  it.  So  people  that  are  beautiful  do  not  necessitate 
others  to  love  them,  nor  to  covet  what  they  ought  not ;  but 
mean,  wretched  men  are  impotent,  I  know,  in  all  their  pas- 
sions, and  then  they  accuse  love.  Men,  excellent  and  worthy, 
though  they  have  inclinations  both  for  gold,  fine  horses,  and 
beautiful  women,  can  yet  with  ease  abstain  from  any  of  them, 
so  as  not  to  touch  them  contrary  to  right :  I,  therefore,"  said 
he,  "  who  have  seen  this  woman,  and  think  her  very  beauti- 
ful, yet  am  here  attending  on  you,  and  I  go  abroad  on  horse- 
back, and  in  all  other  respects  I  discharge  my  duty." 

"But,"  said  Cyrus,  "perhaps  you  retired  before  the  time 
that  love  naturally  lays  hold  of  a  man.  It  is  not  the  nature 
of  fire  immediately  to  burn  the  man  that  touches  it,  and 
wood  does  not  immediately  blaze  out ;  yet  still  I  am  not  will- 
ing either  to  meddle  with  fire,  or  to  look  at  beautiful  persons  : 
nor  do  I  advise  you,  Araspes,  to  let  your  eyes  dwell  long  on 
beauties  ;  for  as  fire  burns  those  that  touch  it,  beauties  catch 
hold  of  those  that  look  at  them,  though  at  a  distance,  and  set 
them  on  fire  with  love." 

"  Be  easy,"  said  he,  "  Cyrus  ;  though  I  look  at  her  with- 
out ceasing,  I  will  not  be  so  conquered  as  to  do  any  thing 
that  I  ought  not."  "You  speak,"  said  he,  "very  hand- 
somely: guard  her,  therefore,"  said  he,  "as  I  bid  you,  and  be 
careful  of  her ;  for  perhaps  this  woman  may  be  of  service  to 
us  on  some  occasion  or  other."  And  having  discoursed  thus 
they  parted. 

The  young  man,  partly  by  seeing  the  woman  to  be  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  and  by  being  apprized  of  her  worth  and 
goodness,  partly  by  waiting  on  her  and  serving  her,  with 
intention  to  please  her,  and  partly  by  his  finding  her  not  to 
be  ungrateful  in  return,  but  that  she  took  care  by  her  ser- 
vants that  all  things  convenient  should  be  provided  for  him 
when  he  came  in,  and  that  he  should  want  nothing  when  he 
was  ill ;  by  all  these  means  he  was  made  her  captive  in  love : 
and  perhaps  what  happened  to  him  in  this  case  was  what 

need  not  be  wondered  at 

rv— 5 


66  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Some  time  afterward,  Cyrus  being  desirous  to  send  a  spy 
into  Lydia,  and  to  learn  what  the  Assyrian  was  doing,  thought 
that  Araspes,  the  guardian  of  the  beautiful  woman,  was  a 
proper  person  to  go  on  that  errand  ;  for  with  Araspes  things 
had  fallen  out  in  this  manner.  Having  fallen  in  love  with 
the  woman,  he  was  forced  to  make  proposals  to  her.  But  she 
denied  him,  and  was  faithful  to  her  husband,  though  he  was 
absent,  for  she  loved  him  very  much.  Yet  she  did  not 
accuse  Araspes  to  Cyrus,  being  unwilling  to  make  a  quarrel 
between  men  that  were  friends.  Then  Araspes,  thinking  to 
forward  the  success  of  his  inclinations,  threatened  the  woman 
that  if  she  would  not  yield  to  his  wishes  she  should  be  forced 
to  submit  against  her  will.  On  this  the  woman,  being  in 
fear,  concealed  the  matter  no  longer,  but  sent  a  messenger  to 
Cyrus  with  orders  to  tell  him  the  whole  affair.  He,  when  he 
heard  it,  laughed  at  this  man,  who  had  said  he  was  above  the 
power  of  love.  He  sent  Artabazus  with  the  messenger,  and 
commanded  him  to  tell  Araspes  that  he  should  respect  the 
conduct  of  such  a  woman.  But  Artabazus,  coming  to  Aras- 
pes, reproached  him,  calling  the  woman  a  deposit  that  had 
been  trusted  in  his  hands ;  and  telling  him  of  his  impiety, 
injustice,  and  impotence  of  his  passion,  so  that  Araspes  shed 
many  tears  for  grief,  was  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and 
almost  dead  with  fear  lest  he  should  suffer  some  severity  at 
the  hands  of  Cyrus.  Cyrus,  being  informed  of  this,  sent  for 
him,  and  spoke  to  him  by  himself  alone. 

"I  see,  Araspes,"  said  he,  "that  you  are  very  much  in 
fear  of  me,  and  very  much  ashamed.  But  give  them  both 
over,  for  I  have  heard  that  gods  have  been  conquered  by  love  ; 
I  know  how  much  men  that  have  been  accounted  very  wise 
have  suffered  by  love  ;  and  I  pronounced  on  myself,  that  if  I 
conversed  with  beautiful  people,  I  was  not  enough  master  of 
myself  to  disregard  them.  And  I  am  the  cause  that  this  has 
befallen  you,  for  I  shut  you  up  with  this  irresistible  creature." 
Araspes  then  said  in  reply,  "  You  are  in  this,  too,  Cyrus,  as 
you  are  in  other  things,  mild  and  disposed  to  forgive  the 
errors  of  men;  but  other  men,"  said  he,  "overwhelm  me 
with  grief  and  concern,  for  the  rumor  of  my  misfortune  has 
got  abroad,  my  enemies  are  pleased  with  it,  and  my  friends 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  67 

come  to  me,  and  advise  me  to  get  out  of  the  way,  lest  I  suffer 
some  severity  at  your  hands,  as  having  been  guilty  of  a  very 
great  injustice." 

Then  Cyrus  said,  "Be  it  known  to  you,  therefore,  Aras- 
pes,  that  by  means  of  this  very  opinion  that  people  have 
taken  up,  it  is  in  your  power  to  gratify  me  in  a  very  high 
degree,  and  to  do  very  great  service  to  our  allies."  "I 
wish,"  said  Araspes,  "that  I  had  an  opportunity  of  being 
again  of  use  to  you."  "Observe,"  said  he,  "if  you  would 
act  as  if  you  fled  from  me,  and  would  go  over  to  the  enemy, 
I  believe  that  the  enemy  would  trust  you."  "And  I  know," 
said  Araspes,  "  that  I  should  give  occasion  to  have  it  said  by 
my  friends  that  I  fled  from  you."  "  Then  you  might  return 
to  us,"  said  he,  "apprized  of  all  the  enemy's  affairs.  I  be- 
lieve, that  on  their  giving  credit  to  you,  they  would  make 
you  a  sharer  in  their  debates  and  councils,  so  that  nothing 
would  be  concealed  from  you  that  I  desire  you  should  know." 
"  I  will  go  then,"  said  he,  "now,  out  of  hand ;  for  be  assured, 
that  my  being  thought  to  have  made  my  escape,  as  one  that 
was  just  about  to  receive  punishment  at  your  hands,  will  be 
one  of  the  things  that  will  give  me  credit." 

"And  can  you,"  said  he,  "leave  the  beautiful  Panthea?" 
"Yes,  Cyrus;  for  I  have  plainly  two  souls.  I  have  now 
philosophized  this  point  out  by  the  help  of  that  wicked 
sophister  love  :  for  a  single  soul  cannot  be  a  good  one  and  a 
bad  one  at  the  same  time,  nor  can  it  at  the  same  time  affect 
both  noble  actions  and  vile  ones.  It  cannot  incline  and  be 
averse  to  the  same  things  at  the  same  time ;  but  it  is  plain 
there  are  two  souls,  and  when  the  good  one  prevails,  it  does 
noble  things ;  when  the  bad  one  prevails,  it  attempts  vile 
things.  But  now  that  it  has  got  you  for  a  support  the  good 
one  prevails,  and  that  very  much."  "If  you  think  it  proper, 
therefore,  to  be  gone,"  said  Cyrus,  "thus  you  must  do  in 
order  to  gain  the  greater  credit  with  them.  Relate  to  them 
the  state  of  our  affairs,  and  relate  it  so  as  that  what  you  say 
may  be  as  great  a  hindrance  as  possible  to  what  they  intend 
to  do  :  and  it  would  be  some  hindrance  to  them,  if  you  should 
say  that  we  are  preparing  to  make  an  incursion  into  some 
part  of  their  territory;  for  when  they  hear  this,  they  will  be 


63  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

less  able  to  assemble  their  wliole  force  together,  every  one 
being  in  fear  for  something  at  home.  Then  stay  with  them,' ' 
said  he,  "  as  long  as  you  can ;  for  what  they  do  when  they 
are  the  nearest  us,  will  be  the  most  for  our  purpose  to  know. 
Advise  them  likewise  to  form  themselves  into  such  an  order 
as  may  be  thought  the  strongest ;  for  when  you  come  away, 
and  are  supposed  to  be  apprized  of  their  order,  they  will  be 
under  a  necessity  to  keep  to  it,  for  they  will  be  afraid  of 
making  a  change  in  it ;  and  if  they  do  make  a  change,  by  their 
being  so  near  at  hand,  it  will  create  confusion  among  them." 

Araspes,  setting  out  in  this  manner,  and  taking  with  him 
such  of  his  servants  as  he  chiefly  confided  in,  and  telling 
certain  persons  such  things  as  he  thought  might  be  of  service 
to  his  undertaking,  went  his  way. 

Panthea,  as  soon  as  she  perceived  that  Araspes  was  gone, 
sending  to  Cyrus,  told  him  thus  :  "  Do  not  be  afflicted,  Cyrus, 
that  Araspes  is  gone  off  to  the  enemy;  for  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  send  to  my  husband,  I  engage  that  there  will  come  to 
you  one  who  will  be  a  much  more  faithful  friend  to  you  than 
Araspes.  I  know  that  he  will  attend  you  with  all  the  force 
that  he  is  able ;  for  the  father  of  the  prince  that  now  reigns 
was  his  friend,  but  he  who  at  present  reigns  attempted  once 
to  part  us  from  each  other ;  and  reckoning  him,  therefore,  an 
unjust  man,  I  know  that  he  would  joyfully  revolt  from  him 
to  such  a  man  as  you  are.' ' 

Cyrus,  hearing  this,  ordered  her  to  send  for  her  husband. 
She  sent ;  and  when  Abradatas  discovered  the  signs  from  his 
wife,  and  perceived  how  matters  stood  as  to  the  other  particu- 
lars, he  marched  joyfully  away  to  Cyrus,  having  about  two 
thousand  horse  with  him.  When  he  came  up  with  the  Per- 
sian scouts  he  sent  to  Cyrus,  to  tell  him  who  he  was :  Cyrus 
immediately  ordered  them  to  conduct  him  to  his  wife. 

When  Abradatas  and  his  wife  saw  each  other  they  mutually 
embraced,  as  was  natural  to  do  on  an  occasion  so  unexpected. 
On  this  Panthea  told  him  of  the  sanctity  and  virtue  of  Cyrus, 
and  of  his  pity  and  compassion  towards  her.  Abradatas,  having 
heard  of  it,  said,  "What  can  I  do,  Panthea,  to  pay  my  grati- 
tude to  Cyrus  for  you  and  for  myself?"  "What  else,"  said 
Panthea,  "but  endeavor  to  behave  towards  him  as  he  has  done 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  69 

towards  you?"  On  th's  Abradatas  caine  to  Cyrus,  and  as 
soon  as  he  saw  him,  taking  him  by  the  right  hand,  he  said, 
"  In  return  for  the  benefits  you  have  bestowed  on  us,  Cyrus, 
I  have  nothing  of  more  consequence  to  say,  than  that  I  give 
myself  to  you  as  a  friend,  a  servant,  and  an  ally;  and  what- 
ever designs  I  observe  you  to  be  engaged  in,  I  will  endeavor 
to  be  the  best  assistant  to  you  in  them  that  I  am  able." 
Then  Cyrus  said,  "  I  accept  your  offer,  and  dismiss  you  at 
this  time,  to  take  your  supper  with  your  wife  ;  but  at  some 
other  time  you  must  take  a  meal  with  me  in  my  tent,  together 
with  your  friends  and  mine. ' ' 

THE  VISIT  OF  SOCRATES  TO  THEODOTA. 

(From  the  "  Memorabilia  of  Socrates.") 

THERE  was  at  Athens  a  very  beautiful  lady  called  Theo- 
dota,  who  had  the  character  of  a  loose  dame.  Some  person, 
speaking  of  her  in  presence  of  Socrates,  said  that  she  was 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  whole  world ;  that  all  the 
painters  went  to  see  her,  to  draw  her  picture,  and  that  they 
were  very  well  received  at  her  house.  "I  think,"  said  Socra- 
tes, "  we  ought  to  go  see  her  too,  for  we  shall  be  better  able 
to  judge  of  her  beauty  after  we  have  seen  her  ourselves  than 
upon  the  bare  relation  of  others."  The  person  who  began 
the  discourse  encouraged  the  matter,  and  that  very  moment 
they  all  went  to  Theodota's  house.  They  found  her  with  a 
painter  who  was  drawing  her  picture ;  and  having  considered 
her  at  leisure  when  the  painter  had  done,  Socrates  began 
thus  :  ' '  Do  you  think  that  we  are  more  obliged  to  Theodota 
for  having  afforded  us  the  sight  of  her  beauty  than  she  is  to 
us  for  coining  to  see  her  ?  If  all  the  advantage  be  on  her  side, 
it  must  be  owned  that  she  is  obliged  to  us ;  if  it  be  on  ours, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  we  are  so  to  her. ' '  Some  of  the  com- 
pany saying  there  was  reason  to  think  so,  Socrates  continued : 
' '  Has  she  not  already  had  the  advantage  of  receiving  the 
praises  we  have  given  her  ?  But  it  will  be  a  greater  benefit 
to  her  when  we  make  known  her  merit  in  all  the  companies 
we  come  into ;  but  as  for  ourselves,  what  do  we  carry  from 
hence  except  a  desire  to  enjoy  the  things  we  have  seen?  We 


70  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

go  hence  with  souls  full  of  love  and  uneasiness ;  and  from 
this  time  forward  we  must  obey  Theodota  in  all  she  pleases 
to  enjoin  us."  "If  it  be  so,"  said  Theodota,  " I  must  return 
you  many  thanks  for  your  coming  hither."  Meanwhile  Soc- 
rates took  notice  that  she  was  magnificently  apparelled,  and 
that  her  mother  appeared  likewise  like  a  woman  of  condition. 
He  saw  a  great  number  of  women  attendants  elegantly  dressed, 
and  that  the  whole  house  was  richly  furnished.  He  took 
occasion  from  hence  to  inform  himself  of  her  circumstances  in 
the  world,  and  to  ask  her  whether  she  had  an  estate  in  land 
or  houses  in  the  city,  or  slaves,  whose  labor  supplied  .the 
expenses  of  her  family.  "I  have  nothing,"  answered  she, 
"of  all  this  ;  my  friends  are  rny  revenue.  I  subsist  by  their 
liberality." 

Upon  which  Socrates  remarked  that  "friendship  was  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  in  life,  for  that  a  good  friend  could 
stand  one  in  stead  of  all  possessions  whatever."  And  he 
advised  Theodota  to  try  all  her  art  to  procure  to  herself  some 
lovers  and  friends  that  might  render  her  happy.  The  lady 
asking  Socrates  whether  there  were  any  artifices  to  be  used 
for  that  purpose,  he  answered,  "there  were,"  and  proceeded 
to  mention  several:  "Some  for  attracting  the  regard  of  the 
men,  some  for  insinuating  into  their  hearts  ;  others  for  secur- 
ing their  affections  and  ^managing  their  passions."  Where- 
upon Theodota,  whose  soul  then  lay  open  to  any  impression, 
mistaking  the  virtuous  design  of  Socrates  in  the  whole  of 
this  discourse  for  an  intention  of  another  sort,  cried  out  in 
raptures,  "Ah!  Socrates,  why  will  not  you  help  me  to 
friends? "  "I  will,"  replied  Socrates,  " if  you  can  persuade 
me  to  do  so."  "And  what  means  must  I  use  to  persuade 
you?"  "You  must  invent  the  means,"  said  Socrates,  "if 
you  want  me  to  serve  you."  "  Then  come  to  see  me  often," 
added  Theodota.  Socrates  laughed  at  the  simplicity  of  the 
woman,  and  in  raillery  said  to  her,  "I  have  not  leisure  enough 
to  come  and  see  you ;  I  have  both  public  and  private  affairs 
which  take  up  too  much  of  my  time.  Besides,  I  have  mis- 
tresses who  will  not  suffer  me  to  be  from  them  neither  day 
nor  night,  and  who  against  myself  make  use  of  the  very 
charms  and  sorceries  that  I  have  taught  them."  "  And  have 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  71 

you  any  knowledge  in  those  things,  too?  "  said  she.  "Why 
do  Apollodorus  and  Antisthenes,"  answered  Socrates,  "never 
leave  me  ?  why  do  Cebes  and  Simmias  forsake  Thebes  for  my 
company  ?  This  they  would  not  do  if  I  were  not  master  of 
some  charm."  "I/end  it  me,"  said  Theodota,  "that  I  may 
employ  it  against  you,  and  charm  you  to  come  to  me."  "  No,' ' 
said  Socrates,  "but  I  will  charm  you,  and  make  you  come  to 
me."  "I  will,"  said  Theodota,  "if  you  will  promise  to 
make  me  welcome."  "I  promise  you  I  will,"  answered 
Socrates,  ' '  provided  there  be  nobody  with  me  whom  I  love 
better  than  you." 

THE  CHOICE  OF  HERCULES. 

(From  the  "Memorabilia  of  Socrates.") 

WHEN  Hercules  had  arrived  at  that  part  of  his  youth  in 
which  young  men  commonly  choose  for  themselves,  and  show, 
by  the  result  of  their  choice,  whether  they  will,  through  the 
succeeding  stages  of  their  lives,  enter  and  walk  in  the  path 
of  virtue  or  that  of  vice,  he  went  out  into  a  solitary  place  fit 
for  contemplation,  there  to  consider  with  himself  which  of 
those  two  paths  he  should  pursue. 

As  he  was  sitting  there  in  suspense  he  saw  two  women  of 
a  larger  stature  than  ordinary  approaching  towards  him.  One 
of  them  had  a  benign  and  amiable  aspect ;  her  beauty  was 
natural  and  easy,  her  person  and  shape  fine  and  handsome, 
her  eyes  cast  towards  the  ground  with  an  agreeable  reserve, 
her  motion  and  behavior  full  of  modesty,  and  her  raiment 
white  as  snow.  The  other  wanted  all  the  native  beauty  and 
proportion  of  the  former ;  her  person  was  swelled,  by  luxury 
and  ease,  to  a  size  quite  disproportioned  and  uncomely.  She 
had  painted  her  complexion,  that  it  might  seem  fairer  and 
more  ruddy  than  it  really  was,  and  endeavored  to  appear  more 
graceful  than  ordinary  in  her  mien,  by  a  mixture  of  affectation 
in  all  her  gestures.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  boldness,  and  her 
dress  transparent,  that  the  conceited  beauty  of  her  person 
might  appear  through  it  to  advantage.  She  cast  her  eyes 
frequently  upon  herself,  then  turned  them  on  those  that  were 
present,  to  see  whether  any  one  regarded  her,  and  now  and 
then  looked  on  the  figure  she  made  in  her  own  shadow. 


72  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  the  former  continued  the  same  com- 
posed pace,  while  the  latter,  striving  to  get  before  her,  ran 
up  to  Hercules,  and  addressed  herself  to  him : 

' '  I  perceive,  my  dear  Hercules,  you  are  in  doubt  which 
path  in  life  you  should  pursue.  If,  then,  you  will  be  my 
friend  and  follow  me,  I  will  lead  you  to  a  path  the  most  easy 
and  most  delightful,  wherein  you  shall  taste  all  the  sweets  of 
life,  and  live  exempt  from  every  trouble.  You  shall  neither 
be  concerned  in  war  nor  in  the  affairs  of  the  world,  but  shall 
only  consider  how  to  gratify  all  your  senses — your  taste  with 
the  finest  dainties  and  most  delicious  drink,  your  sight  with 
the  most  agreeable  objects,  your  scent  with  the  richest  per- 
fumes and  fragrancy  of  odors,  how  you  may  enjoy  the  embraces 
of  the  fair,  repose  on  the  softest  beds,  render  your  slumbers 
sweet  and  easy,  and  by  what  means  enjoy,  without  even  the 
smallest  care,  all  those  glorious  and  mighty  blessings. 

"And,  for  fear  you  suspect  that  the  sources  whence  you 
are  to  derive  those  invaluable  blessings  might  at  some  time 
or  other  fail,  and  that  you  might,  of  course,  be  obliged  to 
acquire  them  at  the  expense  of  your  -mind  and  the  united 
labor  and  fatigue  of  your  body,  I  beforehand  assure  you  that 
you  shall  freely  enjoy  all  from  the  industry  of  others,  undergo 
neither  hardship  nor  drudgery,  but  have  everything  at  your 
command  that  can  afford  you  any  pleasure  or  advantage." 

Hercules,  hearing  the  lady  make  him  such  offers,  desired 
to  know  her  name,  to  which  she  answered,  "  My  friends,  and 
those  who  are  well  acquainted  with  me,  and  whom  I  have 
conducted,  call  me  Happiness ;  but  my  enemies,  and  those 
who  would  injure  my  reputation,  have  given  me  the  name  of 
Pleasure. ' ' 

In  the  meantime,  the  other  lady  approached,  and  in  her 
turn  accosted  him  in  this  manner :  "I  also  am  come  to  you, 
Hercules,  to  offer  my  assistance ;  I  am  well  acquainted  with 
your  divine  origin  and  have  observed  the  excellence  of 
your  nature,  even  from  your  childhood,  from  which  I  have 
reason  to  hope  that,  if  you  would  follow  the  path  that  leadeth 
to  my  residence,  you  will  undertake  the  greatest  enterprises 
and  achieve  the  most  glorious  actions,  and  that  I  shall  thereby 
become  more  honorable  and  illustrious  among  mortals.  But 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  73 

before  I  invite  you  into  my  society  and  friendship  I  will  be 
open  and  sincere  with  you,  and  must  lay  down  this  as  an  es- 
tablished truth,  that  nothing  truly  valuable  can  be  purchased 
without  pains  and  labor.  The  gods  have  set  a  price  upon 
every  real  and  noble  pleasure.  If  you  would  gain  the  favor 
of  the  Deity  you  must  be  at  the  pains  of  worshiping  Him ; 
if  you  would  be  beloved  by  your  friends  you  must  study  to 
oblige  them ;  if  you  would  be  honored  by  any  city  you  must 
be  of  service  to  it ;  and  if  you  would  be  admired  by  all  Greece, 
on  account  of  your  probity  and  valor,  you  must  exert  yourself 
to  do  her  some  eminent  service.  If  you  would  render  your 
fields  fruitful,  and  fill  your  arms  with  grain,  you  must  labor 
to  cultivate  the  soil  accordingly.  Would  you  grow  rich  by 
your  herds,  a  proper  care  must  be  taken  of  them  ;  would  you 
extend  your  dominions  by  arms,  and  be  rendered  capable  of 
setting  at  liberty  your  captive  friends,  and  bringing  your  ene- 
mies to  subjection,  you  must  not  only  learn  of  those  that  are 
experienced  in  the  art  of  war,  but  exercise  yourself  also  in 
the  practice  of  military  affairs  ;  and  if  you  would  excel  in  the 
strength  of  your  body  you  must  keep  your  body  in  due  sub- 
jection to  your  mind,  and  exercise  it  with  labor  and  pains." 

Here  Pleasure  broke  in  upon  her  discourse — uDo  you  see, 
my  dear  Hercules,  through  what  long  and  difficult  ways  this 
woman  would  lead  you  to  her  promised  delights?  Follow 
me,  and  I  will  show  you  a  much  shorter  and  more  easy  way 
to  happiness. ' ' 

"Alas!"  replied  the  Goddess  of  Virtue,  whose  visage 
glowed  with  a  passion  made  up  of  scorn  and  pity,  "what  hap- 
piness can  you  bestow,  or  what  pleasure  can  you  taste,  who 
would  never  do  anything  to  acquire  it  ?  You  who  will  take 
your  fill  of  all  pleasures  before  you  feel  an  appetite  for  any; 
you  eat  before  you  are  hungry,  you  drink  before  you  are 
athirst ;  and,  that  you  may  please  your  taste,  must  have  the 
finest  artists  to  prepare  your  viands ;  the  richest  wines  that 
you  may  drink  with  pleasure,  and  to  give  your  wine  the  finer 
taste  you  search  every  place  for  ice  and  snow  luxuriously  to 
cool  it  in  the  heat  of  summer.  Then,  to  make  your  slumbers 
uninterrupted,  you  must  have  the  softest  down  and  the  easiest 
couches,  and  a  gentle  ascent  of  steps  to  save  you  from  the 


74  LITERATURE  OF  ALL,  NATIONS. 

least  disturbance  in  mounting  up  to  them.  And  all  little 
enough,  Heaven  knows  !  for  you  have  not  prepared  yourself 
for  sleep  by  anything  you  have  done,  but  seek  after  it  only 
because  you  have  nothing  to  do.  It  is  the  same  in  the  enjoy- 
ments of  love,  in  which  you  rather  force  than  follow  your 
inclinations,  and  are  obliged  to  use  arts,  and  even  to  pervert 
nature,  to  keep  your  passions  alive.  Thus  is  it  that  you  in- 
struct your  followers — kept  awake  for  the  greatest  part  of  the 
night  by  debaucheries,  and  consuming  in  drowsiness  all  the 
most  useful  part  of  the  day.  Though  immortal,  you  are  an 
outcast  from  the  gods,  and  despised  by  good  men.  Never 
have  you  heard  that  most  agreeable  of  all  sounds,  your  own 
praise,  nor  ever  have  you  beheld  the  most  pleasing  of  all 
objects,  any  good  work  of  your  own  hands.  Who  would  ever 
give  any  credit  to  anything  that  you  say?  Who  would  assist 
you  in  your  necessity,  or  what  man  of  sense  would  ever  ven- 
ture to  be  of  your  mad  parties?  Such  as  do  follow  you  are 
robbed  of  their  strength  when  they  are  young,  void  of  wisdom 
when  they  grow  old.  In  their  youth  they  are  bred  up  in  in- 
dolence and  all  manner  of  delicacy,  and  pass  their  old  age 
with  difficulties  and  distress,  full  of  shame  for  what  they  have 
done,  and  oppressed  with  the  burden  of  what  they  are  to  do, 
squanderers  of  pleasures  in  their  youth,  and  hoarders  up  of 
afflictions  for  their  old  age. 

"On  the  contrary,  my  association  is  with  the  gods  and 
with  good  men,  and  there  is  nothing  excellent  performed  by 
either  without  my  influence.  I  am  respected  above  all  things 
by  the  gods  and  by  the  best  of  mortals,  and  it  is  just  I  should. 
I  am  an  agreeable  companion  to  the  artisan,  a  faithful  security 
to  masters  of  families,  a  kind  assistant  to  servants,  a  useful 
associate  in  the  arts  of  peace,  a  faithful  ally  in  the  labors  of 
war,  and  the  best  uniter  of  all  friendships. 

"  My  votaries,  too,  enjoy  a  pleasure  in  everything  they 
either  eat  or  drink,  even  without  having  labored  for  it,  because 
they  wait  for  the  demand  of  their  appetites.  Their  sleep  is 
sweeter  than  that  of  the  indolent  and  inactive  ;  and  they  are 
neither  overburdened  with  it  when  they  awake,  nor  do  they, 
for  the  sake  of  it,  omit  the  necessary  duties  of  life.  My 
young  men  have  the  pleasure  of  being  praised  by  those  who 


GREEK   LITERATURE. 


75 


are  in  years,  and  those  who  are  in  years  of  being  honored  by 
those  who  are  young.  They  look  back  with  comfort  on  their 
past  actions,  and  delight  themselves  in  their  present  employ- 
ments. By  my  means  they  are  favored  by  the  gods,  beloved 
by  their  friends,  and  honored  by  their  country;  and  when  the 
appointed  end  of  their  lives  is  come  they  are  not  lost  in  a 
dishonorable  oblivion,  but  live  and  flourish  in  the  praises  of 
mankind,  even  to  the  latest  posterity. 

"Thus,  my  dear  Hercules,  who  are  descended  from  divine 
ancestors,  you  may  acquire,  by  virtuous  toil  and  industry, 
this  most  desirable  state  of  perfect  happiness." 

Such  was  the  discourse,  my  friend,  which  the  goddess  had 
with  Hercules,  according  to  Prodicus.  You  may  believe  that 
he  embellished  the  thoughts  with  more  noble  expressions  than 
I  do.  I  heartily  wish,  my  dear  Aristippus,  that  you  should 
make  such  improvement  of  those  divine  instructions,  that 
you  too  may  make  such  a  happy  choice  as  may  render  you 
happy  during  the  future  course  of  your  life. 


EARLY  GREEK  PHILOSOPHERS. 

B.C.   600-450. 

GREEK  Philosophy,  which  reached  its 
highest  excellence  at  Athens  in  the  fourth 
century  before  Christ,  had  its  origin  two  hundred  years  earlier 
in  the  outlying  settlements  of  the  Hellenic  race  in  Asia  Minor, 
Thrace,   Sicily  and  Southern   Italy,  rather  than  in  Greece 
proper.     The  founding  of  colonies  and  frequent  changes  of 
government  in  the  older  states  led  thoughtful  men  to  study 
the  constitution  of  man  and  of  society.     Such  were  most  of 
those  who  have  become  famous  as  "The  Seven  Wise  Men." 
They  were  prominent  in  their  respective  cities  and  some  were 
known  as  "  tyrants,"  that  is,  persons  who  had  seized  supreme 
power.    Other  thinkers  turned  from  the  unsatisfactory  explan- 
ations of  the  external  world,  its  phenomena  and  origin,  em- 
bodied in  the  current  mythology,  to  direct  investigation  of 
nature,  and  thus  laid  the  foundations  of  science,  as  now  under- 
stood.    First  and  foremost  among  these  was  Thales  of  Ephe- 
sus,  to  whom  the  Ionic  School  of  Philosophy  traced  its  origin. 
His  knowledge  of  astronomy  was  shown  by  his  predicting  the 
eclipse  of  the  sun  which  took  place  in  585  B.C.     His  physical 
researches  led  him  to  the  notion  that  there  must  be  a  primary 
element  of  all  things,  and  this  he  maintained  to  be  water, 
probably  taking  that  as  the  representative  of  all  fluids.     His 
successor,  Anaximenes  of  Miletus,  half  a  century  later,  substi- 
tuted air  for  water.     Heraclitus  of  Ephesus,  who  flourished 
about  520  B.C.,  regarded  fire  as  the  fundamental  principle. 
The  writings  of  this  philosopher  "On  Nature,"  are  among  the 
oldest  relics  of  Greek  prose.     From  the  difficulty  of  under- 
standing  his  meaning,  Heraclitus  was  called  the  Obscure, 
but  he  is  also  popularly  known  as  the  Weeping  Philosopher 
76 


GREEK   LITERATURE.  77 

from  his  disposition  to  lament  the  follies  of  mankind.  In  con- 
trast with  him  stands  Democritus,  the  Laughing  Philosopher, 
who  took  always  a  cheerful  view  of  man's  doings.  Born  at 
Abdera  in  Thrace  about  460  B.C.,  he  spent  in  travels  in  pur- 
suit of  knowledge  the  vast  wealth  which  he  had  inherited. 
He  propounded  the  theory  that  the  universe  is  formed  by  va- 
rious combinations  of  atoms,  or  infinitely  small  particles,  in  a 
void.  This  theory,  somewhat  modified,  was  afterwards  ac- 
cepted by  Epicurus,  and  was  developed  at  length  by  the  great 
Roman  poet  Lucretius.  It  likewise  resembles  the  atomic 
theory,  which  has  been  reached  by  modern  scientists  by  differ- 
ent reasoning.  Anaxagoras,  born  in  Ionia  about  500  B.C., 
dissatisfied  with  the  materialistic  theories  of  other  thinkers, 
maintained  that  Nous  or  Mind  gives  life  and  form  to  matter. 
In  opposition  to  the  foregoing  Ionic  School  of  Philosophers 
was  the  Eleatic  School,  so  called  from  Elea  in  Italy,  where  it 
was  founded  by  Xenophanes,  who,  however,  was  born  at  Celo- 
phon  in  Asia  Minor,  and  flourished  about  550  B.C.  Pushing 
beyond  the  consideration  of  phenomena,  it  considered  at  once 
the  problem  of  being  as  true  reality.  It  passed  from  the  study 
of  physics  to  metaphysics,  as  the  proper  basis  of  a  doctrine 
of  the  universe.  "Looking  up  to  universal  heaven,"  says 
Aristotle,  speaking  of  Xenophanes,  "he  proclaimed  that 
unity  is  God."  Of  the  few  extant  fragments  of  his  philo- 
sophical poem,  the  following  remarkable  extracts  must  suffice: 
* '  One  God  there  is,  among  gods  and  men  the  greatest,  neither 
in  body  nor  mind  like  to  mortals.  .  .  .  With  the  whole  of 
Him  He  sees,  He  thinks,  He  hears.  Without  exertion,  by 
energy  of  mind  He  sways  the  universe."  The  great  successor 
of  Xenophanes  was  Parmenides,  of  Elea,  who  flourished  about 
505  B.C.,  and  was  held  in  the  highest  esteem  by  his  fellow- 
citizens  as  a  legislator.  So  exemplary  was  his  career  that 
the  phrase  "Parmenidean  Life"  became  a  proverb.  When 
well  advanced  in  years,  he  visited  Athens,  and  reminiscences 
of  his  intercourse  with  Socrates  are  found  in  Plato's  dialogues. 
From  the  fragments  of  his  own  poem  we  learn  that  he  regarded 
the  testimony  of  the  senses  as  inferior  to  the  intuitions  of  the 
mind,  that  numbers  and  the  phenomena  of  nature  are  equally  a 
condition  of  the  mind  itself,  and  that  Being  is  the  only  reality. 


78  LITERATURE   OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

A  more  remarkable  figure  is  the  philosopher  Empedocles, 
of  Agrigentuni,  who  flourished  about  450  B.C.  He  was  of  a 
noble  and  wealthy  family,  and  used  his  power  in  behalf  of  the 
oppressed  lower  classes,  but  declined  the  sovereignty  which 
was  offered  to  him.  He  declared  himself  a  favorite  of  Apollo, 
and  believed  that  he  had  discovered  the  expiatory  rites 
by  which  men  might  be  restored  to  their  original  heavenly 
birthright.  He  therefore  asserted  miraculous  power  in  heal- 
ing diseases,  and  even  claimed  to  be  divine.  When  he  left 
the  city  he  was  followed  by  thousands  who  desired  to  profit 
by  his  teaching  and  advice.  He  dressed  gorgeously  and  en- 
deavored to  impress  the  people  with  music  and  mysterious 
ceremonies.  According  to  the  legends  which  accumulated 
about  this  enchanter,  he  leaped  into  the  crater  of  Mount 
^tna  in  order  to  conceal  the  manner  of  his  death  and  estab- 
lish his  divinity,  but  the-mountain  cast  forth  one  of  the  brazen 
slippers  which  he  wore.  He  had  composed  ' '  Lustral  Pre- 
cepts," a  poem  on  "Nature"  and  other  works,  of  which  only 
four  hundred  and  seventy  lines  have  survived.  The  tragic 
fate  of  Empedocles  forms  the  subject  of  an  impressive  poem 
by  Matthew  Arnold. 

Still  more  famous  than  any  of  the  preceding  in  the  history 
of  philosophy  is  Pythagoras,  a  native  of  the  island  of  Samos, 
who  flourished  about  530  B.C.  He  was  a  profound  student  of 
mathematics,  both  practical  and  theoretical,  and  was  so  im- 
pressed with  the  mysteries  of  calculation,  that  he  traced  the 
origin  of  all  things  to  number.  To  him  are  ascribed  the 
invention  of  the  multiplication-table  and  the  discovery  of 
some  most  important  propositions  in  geometry.  Music  also 
held  a  prominent  place  in  his  system,  so  that  he  maintained 
that  harmony  is  the  regulating  principle  of  the  universe ; 
hence  arose  the  widely-diffused  doctrine  of  the  music  of  the 
celestial  spheres,  celebrated  by  many  poets.  In  such  reverence 
were  the  sayings  of  Pythagoras  held  by  his  disciples  that  it 
was  customary  for  them  to  check  discussion  by  the  authori- 
tative declaration,  "Ipse  dixit,"  HE  SAID  SO. 

The  word  "philosophy  "  is  due  to  Pythagoras;  rejecting 
the  name  " sophos" — wise  man,  or  sage — by  which  former 
moral  teachers  had  been  distinguished,  he  wished  to  be  called 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  79 

merely  "philosopher,"  or  lover  of  wisdom.  He  had  traveled 
widely,  visiting  Egypt  and  India  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 
He  introduced  to  the  Greeks  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigra- 
tion of  souls,  and  is  said  to  have  declared  that  he  had  been 
engaged  in  the  Trojan  war  as  Euphorbus,  the  son  of  Panthus. 
He  settled  at  Crotona,  in  Italy,  where  he  formed  a  band  or 
brotherhood  of  three  hundred  devoted  disciples,  who  were 
bound  to  each  other  by  special  ties,  and  had  conventional 
symbols  by  which  they  could  recognize  the  members  of  the 
fraternity.  There  were  different  degrees  in  the  fraternity, 
and  only  to  those  of  the  inmost  circle  were  the  teachings  of 
the  master  fully  explained.  Similar  brotherhoods  were  estab- 
lished in  various  cities  of  Southern  Italy,  and  after  a  time 
exercised  considerable  political  influence,  which,  however,  led 
to  their  suppression  by  violence.  In  the  disturbances  attend- 
ing this  Pythagoras  is  said  to  have  perished.  His  followers 
continued,  however,  as  a  philosophical  sect,  and  some  of  their 
number  became  famous.  The  "Symbols,"  or  brief  enigmatic 
sentences,  and  the  "Golden  Verses,"  or  ethical  precepts, 
which  bear  his  name,  were  of  later  origin,  yet  were  accepted 
by  his  school  and  were  highly  regarded  by  others. 

THE  SEVEN  WISE  MEN. 

THE  Seven  Wise  Men  form  a  remarkable  group  in  the 
history  of  Greece.  They  belong  to  the  sixth  century  before 
Christ,  and  mark  the  beginning  of  social  philosophy.  Most 
of  them  were  composers  in  verse,  but  their  fame  is  connected 
with  certain  maxims,  chosen  as  characteristic  of  each.  These 
are  said  to  have  been  inscribed  by  order  of  the  Amphictyonic 
Council  in  the  temple  of  Apollo  at  Delphi.  They  mark  the 
beginning  of  the  use  of  prose  instead  of  verse. 

SOLON  of  Athens    .    .    .  Know  thyself. 

CHILO  of  Sparta  ....  Consider  the  end. 

THALES  of  Ephesus    .    .  Suretyship  is  the  forerunner  of  ruin. 

BIAS  of  Priene Most  men  are  bad. 

CLEOBULTTS  of  Lindus    .  Nothing  too  much  [Avoid  extremes]. 
PiTTACUS  of  Mitylene    .  Know  thy  opportunity. 
PERTANDER  of  Corinth  .  Nothing  is  impossible  to  labor. 


80  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 


KNOWLEDGE  OF  GOD. 

(From  the  poem  of  Empedocles  "On  Nature.") 
BLESSED  is  the  man  who  hath  obtained  the  riches  of  the 
wisdom  of  God ;   wretched  is  he  who  hath  a  false  opinion 
about  things  divine. 

God  may  not  be  approached,  nor  can  we  reach  Him  with 
our  eyes  or  touch  Him  with  our  hands.  No  human  head  is 
placed  upon  His  limbs,  nor  branching  arms  ;  He  has  no  feet 
to  carry  Him  apace,  nor  other  parts  of  men  ;  but  He  is  all 
pure  mind,  holy  and  infinite,  darting  with  swift  thought 
through  the  universe  from  end  to  end. 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

(From  the  poen  of  Empedocles  "On  Nature.") 
THEN  every  animal  was  tame  and  familiar  with  men,  both 
beasts  and  birds,  and  mutual  love  prevailed.  Trees  flourished 
with  perpetual  leaves  and  fruits,  and  ample  crops  adorned 
their  boughs  through  all  the  year.  Nor  had  these  happy 
people  any  Ares  (Mars)  or  mad  Uproar  for  their  god  ;  nor  was 
their  monarch  Zeus  (Jupiter),  or  Cronos  (Saturn),  or  Poseidon 
(Neptune),  but  Queen  Cypris  (Venus).  Her  favor  they  be- 
sought with  pious  symbols  and  images,  with  fragrant  essences 
and  censers  of  pure  myrrh  and  frankincense,  and  with  brown 
honey  poured  on  the  ground.  The  altars  did  not  reek  with 
the  gore  of  bullocks. 

THE  SYMBOLS  OF  PYTHAGORAS. 

A  FEW  examples  of  these  enigmatic  sayings  are  given, 
with  their  probable  explanations.  Other  interpretations, 
sometimes  very  profound,  have  been  offered.  Similar  pro- 
verbs and  riddles  are  found  among  the  remains  of  early  liter- 
ature in  many  countries. 

Go  not  beyond  the  balance. 

(Transgress  not  the  laws  of  justice.) 
Tear  not  the  crown  (or  wreath)  to  pieces. 

(Spoil  not  joy.     At  Greek  festivals  it  was  customary  to 
wear  garlands.) 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  8 1 

Having  reached  the  border,  turn  not  back. 

(Be  not  dismayed  at  death.) 
Leave  not  the  mark  of  a  pot  in  the  ashes. 

(Cherish  no  resentment  after  reconciliation.) 
Wear  not  a  tight  ring. 

(Do  not  oppress  yourself  for  sake  of  appearances.) 
Sow  mallows,  but  do  not  eat  them. 

(Use  mildness  to  others,  but  not  to  yourself.) 
Feed  the  cock,  but  sacrifice  him  not. 

(Cherish  prophets  and  harm  them  not.) 
Speak  not,  turned  towards  the  sun. 

(Do  not  tell  everything  to  everybody.) 
Abstain  from  beans. 

(Abstain  from   politics.      Black  and  white  beans  were 

used  in  voting  in  some  Greek  cities.) 
When  the  winds  blow,  worship  echo. 

(Recognize  Divine  Providence  in  human  commotions.) 
When  you  go  to  the  temple,  worship ;  neither  do  nor  say  any- 
thing concerning  your  life. 
Stir  not  fire  with  a  sword. 

(Do  not  intensify  quarrels.) 

Help  a  man  to  take  up  a  burden,  but  not  to  put  it  down, 
I,ook  not  in  a  mirror  by  a  torch. 

(Seek  not  truth  in  human  inventions.) 
Decline  the  highways ;  take  the  footpaths. 

(Seek  not  notoriety.) 

THE  GOLDEN  VERSES  OP  PYTHAGORAS. 

FIRST,  in  their  ranks,  the  Immortal  Gods  adore — 
Thine  oath  keep  ;  next  great  Heroes ;  then  implore 
Terrestrial  Demons,  with  due  sacrifice. 
Thy  parents  reverence,  and  near  allies. 
Him  that  is  first  in  virtue  make  thy  friend, 
And  with  observance  his  kind  speech  attend : 
Nor,  to  thy  power,  for  light  faults  cast  him  by : 
Thy  power  is  neighbor  to  Necessity. 

These  know,  and  with  attentive  care  pursue ; 
But  anger,  sloth,  and  luxury  subdue : 

In  sight  of  others  or  thyself,  forbear 
What's  ill ;  but  of  thyself  stand  most  in  fear, 
lyet  Justice  all  thy  words  and  actions  sway ; 

TV— 6 


82  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Nor  from  the  even  course  of  Wisdom  stray ; 
For  know  that  all  men  are  to  die  ordained. 

Crosses  that  happen  by  Divine  decree 
(If  such  thy  lot)  bear  not  impatiently ; 
Yet  seek  to  remedy  with  all  thy  care, 
And  think  the  just  have  not  the  greatest  share. 
'Mongst  men  discourses  good  and  bad  are  spread; 
Despise  not  those,  nor  be  by  these  misled. 
If  any  some  notorious  falsehood  say, 
Thou  the  report  with  equal  judgment  weigh. 
Let  not  men's  smoother  promises  invite, 
Nor  rougher  threats  from  just  resolves  thee  fright. 
If  aught  thou  should' st  attempt,  first  ponder  it — 
Fools  only  inconsiderate  acts  commit ; 
Nor  do  what  afterwards  thou  may'st  repent : 
First  know  the  thing  on  which  thou'rt  bent. 
Thus  thou  a  life  shalt  lead  with  joy  replete. 

Nor  must  thou  care  of  outward  health  forget. 
Such  temperance  use  in  exercise  and  diet 
As  may  preserve  thee  in  a  settled  quiet. 
Meats  unprohibited,  not  curious,  choose ; 
Decline  what  any  other  may  accuse. 
The  rash  expense  of  vanity  detest, 
And  sordidness :  a  mean  in  all  is  best. 

Hurt  not  thyself.     Before  thou  act,  advise  ; 
Nor  suffer  sleep  at  night  to  close  thy  eyes 
Till  thrice  thine  acts  that  day  thou  hast  o'errunj: 
How  hast  thou  slipped  ? — what  duty  left  undone  ? 
Thus,  thine  account  summed  up  from  first  to  last, 
Grieve  for  the  ill,  joy  for  what  good  hath  passed. 

These  study,  practice  these,  and  these  affect  ; 
To  sacred  Virtue  these  thy  steps  direct : 
Eternal  Nature's  fountain  I  attest, 
Who  the  Tetractys*  on  our  souls  impressed. 

,     *  The  number  four,  as  well  as  one  and  seven,  was  highly  regarded 
by  the   Pythagoreans.     The   Tetractys  or  Quaternion,  . 

meaning  literally  four,  was  an  emblem  composed  of  ten          .    . 
dots  arranged  in  four  rows.     In  the  soul  it  represents 
judgment,  which  is  based  upon  the  four  faculties,  under- 
standing, knowledge,  opinion  and  sense.    But  in  its  full 
mystic  significance,  it  was  a  comprehensive  emblem  of  the  Deity,  the 
universe  and  reason. 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  83 

Before  thy  mind  thou  to  this  study  bend, 
Invoke  the  Gods  to  grant  it  a  good  end. 
These  if  thy  labor  vanquish,  thou  shalt  then 
Know  the  connection  both  of  gods  and  men ; 
How  everything  proceeds,  or  by  what  stayed ; 
And  know  (as  far  as  fit  to  be  surveyed) 
Nature  alike  throughout ;  that  thou  mayst  learn 
Not  to  hope  hopeless  things,  but  all  discern ; 
And  know  those  wretches  whose  perverser  wills 
Draw  down  upon  their  hearts  spontaneous  ills, 
Unto  the  good  that's  near  them  deaf  and  blind ; 
Some  few  the  cure  of  these  misfortunes  find.  , 
This  only  is  the  Fate  that  harms,  and  rolls 
Through  miseries  successive  human  souls. 
Within  is  a  continual  hidden  sight, 
Which  we  to  shun  must  study,  not  excite. 

Great  Jove !  how  little  trouble  should  we  know, 
If  thou  to  all  men  wouldst  their  genius  show ! 
But  fear  not  thou — man  born  of  heavenly  race, 
Taught  by  diviner  Nature  what  to  embrace, 
Which,  if  pursued,  thou  all  I've  named  shall  gain, 
And  keep  thy  soul  clean  from  thy  body's  stain. 
In  time  of  prayer  and  cleansing,  meats  denied 
Abstain  from;  thy  mind's  reins,  let  Reason  guide; 
Then  stripped  of  flesh,  up  to  free  ether  soar, 
A  deathless  god — divine — mortal  no  more. 


ANACREON. 

THOUGH  Anacreon  has  been  famous  as 
the  poet  of  wine  and  love,  few  genuine  frag- 
ments  of  his  songs  have  come  down  to  us. 
Those  which  pass  under  his  name  belong  to  his  Greek  imi- 
tators in  later  times.     Specimens  are  given  here  as  a  relief 
after  the  prosing  of  historians  and  philosophers. 

Anacreon  was  born  at  Teos,  in  Ionia,  about  550  B.C., 
but  emigrated  with  other  citizens  to  Abdera,  in  Thrace,  to 
escape  the  Persian  yoke.  Here  he  cultivated  the  muse  until 
the  fame  of  his  talents  and  courtly  disposition  brought  him 
an  invitation  from  Polycrates,  the  tyrant  of  Samos.  At  this 
centre  of  culture  he  remained  for  eighteen  years,  entertain- 
ing the  tyrant  and  his  subjects  with  the  sweetness  of  amatory 
song.  Hipparchus,  son  of  Pisistratus,  afterwards  invited  the 
poet  to  Athens,  and  a  barge  of  fifty  oars  was  sent  for  him. 
In  his  new  home  he  found  a  brilliant  throng  of  cultivated 
men,  among  whom  was  Simonides  of  Ceos.  After  the  expul- 
sion of  the  sons  of  Pisistratus,  Anacreon  returned  to  his 
native  place.  Here,  in  his  eighty-fifth  year,  according  to 
tradition,  he  was  choked  with  a  grape-stone. 

The  songs  which  from  ancient  times  have  been  loosely 
attributed  to  Anacreon  are  marked  by  sweet  simplicity  and 
buoyant  cheerfulness.  His  poems  in  praise  of  wine  inculcate 
only  moderate  indulgence,  and  are  far  removed  from  excess. 
His  best  imitators  in  English  have  been  Abraham  Cowley, 
Richard  Bourne  and  Thomas  Moore.  The  last  has  been 
justly  called  the  modern  Anacreon,  as  having  the  playful 
spirit  of  the  Greek,  but  his  versions  are  paraphrases,  rather 
than  exact  translations.  The  following  specimens  are  taken 
chiefly  from  Bourne,  as  being  more  faithful  to  the  original. 
84 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  8$ 


ON  His  LYRE. 

WHILE  I  sweep  the  sounding  string, 
While  the  Atridse's  praise  I  sing — 
Victors  on  the  Trojan  plain — 
Or  to  Cadmus  raise  the  strain, 
Hark,  in  soft  and  whispered  sighs, 
Love's  sweet  notes  the  shell*  replies. 

Late  I  strung  my  harp  anew, 
Changed  the  strings — the  subject  too. 
Loud  I  sung  Alcides's  toils ; 
Still  the  lyre  my  labor  foils ; 
Still  with  Love's  sweet  silver  sounds 
Every  martial  theme  confounds. 
Farewell,  Heroes,  Chiefs,  and  Kings ! 
Naught  but  Love  will  suit  my  strings. 

THE  WEAPON  OF  BEAUTY. 

POINTED  horns — the  dread  of  foes — 
Nature  on  the  Bull  bestows ; 
Horny  hoofs  the  Horse  defend ; 
Swift- winged  feet  the  Hare  befriend ; 
Lions'  gaping  jaws  disclose 
Dreadful  teeth  in  grinning  rows  ; 
Wings  to  Birds  her  care  supplied ; 
Finny  Fishes  swim  the  tide ; 
Nobler  gifts  to  Man  assigned, 
Courage  firm  and  Strength  of  Mind. 

From  her  then  exhausted  store 
Naught  for  Woman  has  she  more  ? 
How  does  Nature  prove  her  care  ? — 
Beauty's  charm  is  Woman's  share. 
Stronger  far  than  warrior's  dress 
Is  her  helpless  loveliness. 
Safety  smiles  in  Beauty's  eyes ; 
She  the  hostile  flame  defies ; 
Fiercest  swords  submissive  fall : — 
Lovely  Woman  conquers  all. 

*  Hermes  was  fabled  to  have  made  the  first  lyre  by  stretching 
strins  over  the  empty  shell  of  a  tortoise. 


86  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 


CUPID  AS  A  GUEST. 

'TWAS  at  the  solemn  midnight  hour, 
When  silence  reigns  with  awful  power, 
Just  when  the  bright  and  glittering  Bear 

Is  yielding  to  her  Keeper's  care, 
When  spent  with  toil,  with  care  opprest, 
Man's  busy  race  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Sly  Cupid,  sent  by  cruel  Fate, 
Stood  loudly  knocking  at  my  gate. 

' '  Who's  there  ?  "  I  cried,  ' '  at  this  late  hour  ? 
Who  is  it  batters  at  my  door  ? 
Begone !  you  break  my  blissful  dreams ! " — 
But  he,  on  mischief  bent,  it  seems, 
With  feeble  voice  and  piteous  cries, 
In  childish  accents  thus  replies : 

"Be  not  alarmed,  kind  Sir;  'tis  I, 
A  little,  wretched,  wandering  boy ; 
Pray  ope  the  door,  I've  lost  my  way ; 
This  moonless  night,  alone  I  stray ;  ^ 

I'm  stiff  with  cold;  I'm  drenched  all  o'er; 
For  pity's  sake,  pray,  ope  the  door ! " 

Touched  with  this  simple  tale  of  woe, 
And  little  dreaming  of  a  foe, 
I  rose,  lit  up  my  lamp,  and  straight 
Undid  the  fastenings  of  the  gate ; 
And  there,  indeed,  a  boy  I  spied, 
With  bow  and  quiver  by  his  side. 
Wings  too  he  wore — a  strange  attire ! 
My  guest  I  seated  near  the  fire, 
And  while  the  blazing  fagots  shine, 
I  chafed  his  little  hands  in  mine ; 
His  damp  and  dripping  locks  I  wrung, 
That  down  his  shoulders  loosely  hung. 

Soon  as  his  cheeks  began  to  glow, 
'Come  now,"  he  cried,  "let's  try  this  bow; 
For  much  I  fear,  this  rainy  night, 
The  wet  and  damp  have  spoiled  it  quite." 

That  instant  twanged  the  sounding  string, 
I/)ud  as  the  whizzing  gad-fly's  wing. — 


GREEK    LITERATURE.  87 

Too  truly  aimed,  the  fatal  dart 

My  bosom  pierced  with  painful  smart. — 

Up  sprang  the  boy  with  laughing  eyes, 

And,  "  Wish  me  joy,  mine  host ! "  he  cries ; 

' '  My  bow  is  sound  in  every  part ; 

Thou' It  find  the  arrow  in  thy  heart ! " 

THE  IDEAL  PORTRAIT. 

THOU  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues, 
Mimic  form  and  soul  infuse ; 
Best  of  Painters,  come  portray 
The  lovely  maid  that's  far  away. 
Far  away,  my  Soul,  thou  art, 
But  I've  thy  beauties  all  by  heart — 

Paint  her  jetty  ringlets  straying, 
Silky  twine  in  tendrils  playing ; 
And,  if  painting  hath  the  skill 
To  make  the  balmy  spice  distill, 
Let  every  little  lock  exhale 
A  sigh  of  perfume  on  the  gale. 

Where  her  tresses'  curly  flow 
Darkles  o'er  the  brow  of  snow, 
Let  her  forehead  beam  to  light, 
Burnished  as  the  ivory  bright. 
Let  her  eyebrows  sweetly  rise 
In  jetty  arches  o'er  her  eyes, 
Gently  in  a  crescent  gliding, 
Just  commingling,  just  dividing. 

But  hast  thou  any  sparkles  warm 
The  lightning  of  her  eyes  to  form  ? — 
Let  them  effuse  the  azure  ray 
With  which  Minerva's  glances  play ; 
And  give  them  all  that  liquid  fire 
That  Venus' s  languid  eyes  respire. 

O'er  her  nose  and  cheek  be  shed 
Flushing  white  and  mellowed  red ; 
Gradual  tints,  as  when  there  glows 
In  snowy  milk  the  bashful  rose. 

Then  her  lips,  so  rich  in  blisses ; 
Sweet  petitioner  for  kisses ; 
Pouting  nest  of  bland  persuasion, 
Ripely  suing  love's  invasion  ! 


88  LITERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

Then,  beneath  the  velvet  chin, 
Whose  dimple  shades  a  lyove  within, 
Mould  her  neck,  with  grace  descending, 
In  a  heaven  of  beauty  ending ; 
While  airy  charms,  above,  below, 
Sport  and  flutter  on  its  snow. 

Now  let  a  floating  lucid  veil 
Shadow  her  limbs,  but  not  conceal. 
A  charm  may  peep,  a  hue  may  beam ; 
And  leave  the  rest  to  Fancy's  dream. — 
Enough — 'tis  she !  'tis  all  I  seek ; 
It  glows,  it  lives,  it  soon  will  speak ! 

IN  PRAISE  OF  WINE. 

WHEN  the  nectar 'd  bowl  I  drain, 
Gloomy  cares  forego  their  reign ; 
Richer  than  the  Lydian  king 
Hymns  of  love  and  joy  I  sing ; 
Ivy  wreaths  my  temples  twine 
And  while  careless  I  recline, 
While  bright  scenes  my  vision  greet 
Tread  the  world  beneath  my  feet. 
Fill  the  cup,  my  trusty  page ; 
Anacreon,  the  blithe  and  sage, 
As  his  maxim  ever  said, 
"Those  slain  by  wine  are  nobly  dead." 

PLEA  FOR  DRINKING.' 

THE  Earth  drinks  up  the  genial  rains, 
Which  deluge  all  her  thirsty  plains; 
The  lofty  Trees  that  pierce  the  sky 
Drink  up  the  earth  and  leave  her  dry ; 
The  insatiate  Sea  imbibes  each  hour » 
The  welcome  breeze  that  brings  the  shower ; 
The  Sun,  whose  fires  so-fiercely  burn, 
Absorbs  the  waves,  and  in  her  turn 
The  modest  Moon  enjoys  each  night 
Large  draughts  of  his  celestial  light. 
Then,  sapient  sirs,  pray  tell  me  why, 
If  all  things  drink,  why  may  not  I  ? 


GREBE    LITERATURE.  89 


ANACREON'S  DOVE. 

(Translated  by  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson.) 

"  LOVELY  courier  of  the  sky, 
Whence  and  whither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Scattering  as  thy  pinions  play, 
Liquid  fragrance  all  the  way. 
Is  it  business  ?     Is  it  love  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  gentle  dove." 

"  Soft  Anacreon's  vows  I  bear, 
Vows  to  Myrtale  the  fair ; 
Graced  with  all  that  charms  the  heart, 
Blushing  nature,  smiling  art, 
Venus,  courted  by  an  ode, 
On  the  Bard  her  Dove  bestow' d. 
Vested  with  a  master's  right, 
Now  Anacreon  rules  my  flight : 
As  the  letters  that  you  see, 
Weighty  charge  consigned  to  me : 
Think  not  yet  my  service  hard, 
Joyless  task  without  reward : 
Smiling  at  my  master's  gates, 
Freedom  my  return  awaits : 
But  the  liberal  grant  in  vain 
Tempts  me  to  be  wild  again. 
Can  a  prudent  Dove  decline 
Blissful  bondage  such  as  mine? 
Over  hills  and  fields  to  roam, 
Fortune's  guest  without  a  home; 
Under  leaves  to  hide  one's  head, 
Slightly  shelter' d,  coarsely  fed: 
Now  my  better  lot  bestows 
Sweet  repast  and  soft  repose ; 
Now  the  generous  bowl  I  sip 
As  it  leaves  Anacreon's  lip ; 
Void  of  care,  and  free  from  dread 
From  his  fingers  snatch  his  bread, 
Then  with  luscious  plenty  gay, 
Round  his  chambers  dance  and  play ; 
Or,  from  wine  as  courage  springs, 


90  LITERATURE  OF  AL,!,  NATIONS. 

O'er  his  face  expand  my  wings ; 
And  when  feast  and  frolic  tire, 
Drop  asleep  upon  his  lyre. 
This  is  all ;  be  quick  and  go, 
More  than  all  thou  canst  not  know ; 
Let  me  now  my  pinions  ply, — 
I  have  chattered  like  a  pye." 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

(Translated  by  Abraham  Cowley.) 

HAPPY  insect !  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 

'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink  and  dance  and  sing ; 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 

All  that  summer  hours  produce ; 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  joy ; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy ; 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country-hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripen'd  year ! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life's  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect,  happy,  thou 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know; 

But,  when  thou'st  drunk  and  danced  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 


GREEK  LITERATURE.  91 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 
Epicurean  animal !) — 
Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 
Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


CUPID  AND  THE  BEE. 

CUPID  once  upon  a  bed 
Of  roses  laid  his  weary  head ; 
Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 
Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee ! 
The  bee  awaked — with  anger  wild 
The  bee  awaked,  and  stung  the  child. 
Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries ; 
To  Venus  quick  he  runs,  he  flies ; 
"  O  mother ! — I  am  wounded  through — 
I  die  with  pain — what  shall  I  do  ? 
Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 
Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing — 
A  bee  it  was — for  once,  I  know, 
I  heard  a  peasant  call  it  so." 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  she  the  while 
Heard  him  with  a  soothing  smile ; 
Then  said :  ' '  My  infant,  if  so  much 
Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bee's  touch, 
How  must  the  heart,  ah,  Cupid,  be, 
The  hapless  heart  that's  stung  by  thee?  " 


LATIN  LITERATURE. 


PERIOD  III.    B.C.  SO-A.D.  25. 


Golden  Age  of  Latin  Literature  embraces 
two  distinct  periods,  one  belonging  to  the 
decline  of  the  Republic  and  especially  dis- 
tinguished by  the  comprehensive  genius  of 
Cicero,  the  other  to  the  founding  of  the  Empire  and 
commonly  known  as  the  Augustan  Age  from  Caesar 
Augustus,  who  by  his  liberality  attached  the  poets  Virgil  and 
Horace  to  his  court.  The  former  period  has  already  been 
treated  and  exemplified.*  Yet  the  illustrious  Julius  Caesar 
has  been  reserved  for  mention  here,  as  the  true  founder  of  the 
new  era,  political  and  literary.  The  Augustan  Age  in  fact 
began  before  the  overthrow  of  the  Republic,  reached  its  zenith 
in  the  peaceful  reign  of  Augustus,  and  may  be  said  to  termi- 
nate with  the  death  of  Ovid  in  the  first  years  of  the  reign  of 
Tiberius. 

In  French  history  Louis  XIV.  presents  almost  an  exact 
counterpart  to  Augustus,  both  in  political  policy  and  in  his 
attitude  to  literature.  As  rulers  both  were  despotic,  but 
they  recognized  literature  and  art  not  only  as  refined  amuse- 
ments, but  as  powerful  levers  for  their  respective  policies. 
Genius  and  social  eminence  allied  have  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  on  literary  history,  and  of  this  fact  the  Augustan 
Age  is  the  most  conspicuous  proof,  for  it  has  affected  the 
whole  subsequent  development  of  European  literature.  There 
is  a  period  in  English  literature— the  reign  of  Queen  Anne — 
often  called  the  Augustan  Age,  and  deserving  this  title  both 


*See  Volume  III.,  pp.  92-122. 


Q2 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  93 

/ 

from  tlie  corresponding  artistic  polish  and  elegance  of  its  best 
products,  and  from  the  intimate  relations  between  the  writers 
and  men  of  eminent  social  position. 

Latin  prose  had  reached  its  highest  development  in  the 
decline  of  the  Republic,  not  only  in  the  various  works  of 
Cicero,  but  in  the  vivid  histories  of  Sallust  and  the  masterly 
Commentaries  of  Caesar.  In  the  reign  of  Augustus  both  epic 
and  lyric  poetry  attained  a  similar  eminence.  In  neither 
species  of  verse  was  the  Roman  genius  original,  but  essentially 
imitative,  and  yet  by  careful  culture  it  reached  a  perfection 
which  has  made  its  productions  the  choicest  models  for  subse- 
quent writers.  Virgil  was  not  merely  the  master  and  guide 
of  Dante ;  he  was  the  instructor  of  all  the  great  poets  of 
modern  Europe.  Horace  has  been  the  favorite  lyrist,  and 
familiar  friend  of  all  cultivated  people.  Caesar  Octavianus, 
who  was  afterwards  honored  by  the  title  Augustus,  was  fortu- 
nate in  having  his  power  firmly  secured  by  the  battle  of 
Actium  31  B.C.  When  he  returned  to  Rome  to  enjoy  its  fruits, 
he  determined  to  cultivate  the  arts  of  peace,  and  won  the 
favor  of  his  subjects  by  his  conciliatory  course.  He  was 
fortunate  in  finding  at  Rome  many  young  men  of  literary 
ability,  and  in  having  as  his  prime  minister  Caius  Cilnius 
Maecenas,  whose  name  has  become  proverbial  as  a  patron  of 
arts  and  letters.  Both  the  emperor  and  his  premier  were 
themselves  writers  and  critics,  though  their  writings  have 
perished,  and  they  exercised  discriminating  taste  in  the 
selection  of  the  objects  of  their  bounty.  Inspiration  was  still 
sought  from  the  master-pieces  of  Greek  literature,  but  under 
the  direction  of  the  Alexandrian  grammarians  and  rhetori- 
cians. Hence  the  L,atin  products  of  this  period  bear  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  Greek  works  produced  under  the  patron- 
age of  the  Ptolemies.  Though  Virgil  in  his  Georgics  imi- 
tated Hesiod,  and  in  his  ^neid  the  splendid  epics  of  Homer, 
his  polished  style  is  more  like  that  of  Callimachus  and  Apol- 
lonius  Rhodius.  In  his  Eclogues  he  followed  directly  in  the 
footsteps  of  Theocritus,  the  pastoral  poet  of  the  Egyptian 
court.  Horace  in  like  manner  drew  inspiration  from  Alcaeus 
and  Sappho,  yet  his  verses  resemble  more  the  poems  of  the 
Greek  Anthology.  In  his  Epistles  and  Satires,  not  being 


94  LITERATURE  OP  ALT,  NATIONS. 

restrained  by  the  rules  of  Greek  predecessors,  he  is  truly 
Roman  in  subject  and  treatment.  While  in  early  life  he 
was  a  voluptuary,  he  now  became  a  moralist,  yet  genial  and 
warm-hearted. 

Tibullus  and  Propertius,  the  minor  poets  of  the  age,  were 
graceful  lyrists  of  the  Greek  style.  They  treat  of  love; 
Tibullus  in  pensive  elegies,  Propertius  in  more  artificial  style, 
imitated  from  Callimachus.  But  far  more  distinguished  than 
these  was  the  bolder  poet  Ovid,  who  not  only  sang  loose  love- 
songs,  and  wrote  a  collection  of  poetical  love-letters,  under 
the  name  "Heroides,"  but  professed  to  teach  "The  Art  of 
Love"  in  such  lascivious  way  as  to  corrupt  the  emperor's 
daughter,  and  to  draw  upon  himself  the  penalty  of  banish- 
ment to  the  shores  of  the  Euxine  Sea.  To  this  facile  poet 
the  world  is  indebted  for  a  brilliant  summary  of  the  ancient 
mythology  under  the  title  "Metamorphoses."  Other  poets 
graced  the  court  of  Augustus,  but  their  works  have  perished. 

The  greatest  work  due  to  the  Augustan  period  was  the 
"History  of  Rome"  by  Titus  Livius,  born  at  Padua,  but 
residing  at  the  court  of  the  emperor.  In  forty  years  he  had 
written  one  hundred  and  forty-two  books,  treating  fully  the 
seven  centuries  from  the  foundation  of  Rome.  Only  thirty- 
five  of  the  books  have  survived  the  ravages  of  time.  Though 
he  exercises  little  critical  skill  in  the  use  of  his  authorities, 
his  work  is  the  most  valuable  record  of  the  early  development 
of  the  mightiest  -power  of  the  world.  He  accepted  the  old 
traditions  without  question,  and  sought  chiefly  to  present 
them  in  finished  style  for  the  delight  of  the  Roman  people. 
The  work  progressed  simultaneously  with  Virgil's  ^Sneid, 
and  as  successive  portions  were  completed  they  were  read  to 
Augustus  and  Maecenas.  Yet  the  author  did  not  seek  by  un- 
worthy means  to  secure  their  favor,  as  was  indicated  by  his 
bestowing  htgh  praise  on  Pompey.  Aiming  to  set  forth  the 
glory  of  Rome  and  the  prowess  of  its  people,  in  their  con- 
quest of  the  world,  he  could  not  be  absolutely  fair  to  their 
enemies.  His  skill  as  an  historical  artist  is  great,  and  the 
scenes  are  full  of  vigor  and  interest.  Following  the  pattern 
of  the  Greek  historians,  he  recites  speeches  supposed  to  have 
been  delivered  by  the  chief  actors  in  the  events. 


THE  first  Roman  that  wrote  what  is 
usually  called  history  was  Caius  Sallustius 
Crispus.  He  was  a  plebeian  born  in  86  B.C. 
in  the  country  of  the  Sabines.  He  was  engaged  in  the  civil 
wars  on  the  popular  side,  and  held  many  offices.  In  50  B.C. 
he  was  expelled  from  the  senate  on  a  charge  of  flagrant  im- 
morality, though  the  true  reason  was  that  he  belonged  to 
Caesar's  party.  He  remained  faithful  to  that  leader,  and  was 
in  a  few  years  restored  to  his  rank.  For  a  time  he  was  gov- 
ernor of  Numidia,  in  which  capacity  he  oppressed  the  people, 
but,  though  charged  with  maladministration,  he  was  not 
brought  to  trial.  Retiring  to  private  life  on  his  return  from 
Africa,  he  entered  on  his  historical  works,  and  passed  quietly 
through  the  turbulent  period  after  Caesar's  death.  His  im- 
mense wealth  was  attested  by  the  expensive  gardens  which 
he  formed  on  the  Quirinal  hill.  He  died  in  34  B.C.  In  his 
writings  Sallust  took  Thucydides  as  his  model,  but  he  did 
not  possess  the  same  philosophic  spirit.  His  language  is  con- 
cise and  usually  clear,  except  where  his  love  of  brevity  renders 
it  ambiguous.  His  graphic  account  of  the  conspiracy  of 
Catiline  is  valuable,  since  he  was  a  spectator  of  the  scenes  he 
describes  and  was  unfriendly  to  Cicero.  His  other  work 
relates  in  rhetorical  style  the  history  of  Jugurtha,  King  of 
Numidia,  but  is  not  as  exact  in  its  statements  as  the  former. 
Though  notorious  for  immorality,  Sallust,  in  his  writings, 
poses  as  a  moralist,  and  rebukes  the  degeneracy  of  the  Romans. 

JUGURTHA  AT  ROME. 

The  tribune  Caius  Memmius  persuaded  the  Roman  people 
to  send  Lucius  Cassius,  who  was  then  prsetor,  to  Jugurtha, 

95 


96  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

and  bring  him  from  Africa  to  Rome  on  the  public  faith: 
that,  by  his  evidence,  Scaurus  and  others  who  were  charged 
with  betraying  their  trust  might  be  clearly  convicted. 

The  praetor  Cassius,  in  consequence  of  this  ordinance  of 
the  people,  procured  by  Memmius,  to  the  great  surprise  of  the 
nobility,  went  to  Jugurtha,  who,  from  a  consciousness  of  his 
guilt,  was  doubtful  of  his  cause,  and  persuaded  him  "  that  since 
he  had  already  delivered  himself  up  to  the  Roman  people,  he 
should  trust  to  their  mercy  rather  than  provoke  their  ven- 
geance." He  likewise  pledged  to  him  his  own  faith,  which 
Jugurtha  reckoned  as  strong  a  security  as  that  of  the  republic  ; 
such  at  that  time  was  the  reputation  of  Cassius. 

Jugurtha  accordingly  went  to  Rome  with  Cassius,  yet 
divested  of  regal  pomp,  and  dressed  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
excite  compassion.  But  though  he  was  himself  of  an  intrepid 
spirit,  and  was  moreover  encouraged  by  assurances  from  those 
in  reliance  on  whose  power  and  criminal  practices  he  had 
hitherto  been  supported,  yet,  by  an  immense  sum  of  money, 
he  secured  the  assistance  of  Caius  Baebius,  tribune  of  the 
people,  one  who  trusted  to  his  invincible  impudence  for 
protection  against  all  law  and  all  manner  of  injuries. 

When  an  assembly  of  the  people  was  called  by  Memmius, 
though  they  were  so  highly  exasperated  against  Jugurtha 
that  some  of  them  were  for  putting  him  in  chains,  others  for 
putting  him  to  death  as  a  public  enemy,  according  to  the 
ancient  usage,  unless  he  discovered  his  associates,  yet  Mem- 
mius, more  concerned  for  their  dignity  than  the  gratification 
of  their  fury,  endeavored  to  calm  the  tumult  and  soften  their 
minds,  and  declared  that  he  would  take  care  that  the  public 
faith  should  not  be  violated. 

Having  obtained  silence  and  ordered  Jugurtha  to  be 
brought  before  the  assembly,  he  proceeded  in  his  speech  ;  re- 
counted all  his  wicked  actions,  both  in  Rome  and  Numidia ; 
exposed  his  unnatural  behavior  to  his  father  and  brothers, 
adding,  that  the  Roman  people,  though  they  were  not  igno- 
rant by  whom  he  had  been  aided  and  supported,  still  desired 
full  information  of  the  whole  from  himself.  If  he  declared 
the  truth,  he  had  much  to  hope  from  the  faith  and  clemency 
of  the  Roman  people ;  but  if  he  concealed  it,  he  would  not 


LATIN  LITERATURE;.  97 

save  his  friends  by  such  means,  but  ruin  his  own  fortune  and 
his  prospects  forever. 

When  Memmius  had  concluded  and  Jugurtha  was  ordered 
to  reply,  the  tribune  Bsebius,  who  had  been  secured  by  a  sum 
of  money,  as  already  mentioned,  ordered  him  to  be  silent ;  and 
though  the  people  there  assembled  were  highly  incensed,  and 
endeavored  to  terrify  him  with  their  cries,  with  angry  looks, 
with  acts  of  violence,  and  every  other  method  which  indigna- 
tion inspires,  yet  his  impudence  triumphed  over  it  all.  The 
people  departed  after  being  thus  mocked ;  Jugurtha,  Bestia 
and  the  rest,  who  were  at  first  fearful  of  this  prosecution,  now 
assumed  greater  courage. 

There  was  at  this  juncture  a  certain  Numidian  at  Rome 
called  Massiva,  the  son  of  Gulussa,  and  grandson  of  Masinissa, 
who,  having  taken  part  against  Jugurtha  in  the  war  between 
the  three  kings,  had  fled  from  Africa  on  the  surrender  of  Cirta 
and  the  murder  of  Adherbal.  Spurius  Albinus,  who  with 
Quintus  Minucius  Rufus,  succeeded  Bestia  in  the  consulship, 
persuaded  this  man  to  apply  to  the  senate  for  the  kingdom  of 
Numidia,  as  he  was  descended  from  Masinissa,  and  Jugurtha 
was  now  the  object  of  public  abhorrence  on  account  of  his 
crimes,  and  alarmed  with  daily  fears  of  the  punishment  he 
merited.  The  consul,  who  was  fond  of  having  the  manage- 
ment of  the  war,  was  more  desirous  that  the  public  disturb- 
ances should  be  continued  than  composed.  The  province  of 
Numidia  had  fallen  to  him,  and  Macedonia  to  his  colleague. 

When  Massiva  began  to  prosecute  his  claim,  Jugurtha, 
finding  that  he  could  not  rely  on  the  assistance  of  his  friends, 
some  of  whom  were  seized  with  remorse,  others  restrained  by 
the  bad  opinion  the  public  had  of  them  and  by  their  fears, 
ordered  Bomilcar,  who  was  his  faithful  friend  and  confidant, 
4 '  to  engage  persons  to  murder  Massiva  for  money,  by  which 
he  had  accomplished  many  things,  and  to  do  it  by  private 
means,  if  possible  ;  but  if  these  were  ineffectual,  by  any  means 
whatever." 

Bomilcar  quickly  executed  the  king's  orders,  and,  by  em- 
ploying proper  instruments,  discovered  his  places  of  resort,  his 
set  times  and  all  his  movements,  and  when  matters  were  ripe 
laid  a  scheme  for  the  assassination.     One  of  those  who  were 
iv— 7 


98 


LITERATURE  OF  AU.  NATIONS. 


to  put  the  murder  into  execution  attacked  Massiva  and  slew 
him,  but,  so  imprudently,  that  he  was  himself  apprehended, 
and  being  urged  by  many,  especially  by  the  consul  Albinus, 
confessed  all.  Bomilcar  was  arraigned,  more  agreeably  to 
reason  and  justice  than  to  the  law  of  nations,  for  he  had  ac- 
companied Jugurtha,  who  came  to  Rome  on  the  public  faith. 
Jugurtha,  though  clearly  guilty  of  so  foul  a  crime,  repeated 
his  endeavors  to  bear  down  the  force  of  truth,  till  he  perceived 
that  the  horror  of  his  guilt  was  such  as  to  baffle  all  the  power 
of  interest  or  bribery,  on  which,  though  he  had  been  com- 
pelled in  the  commencement  of  the  prosecution  of  Bomilcar 
to  give  up  fifty  of  his  friends  as  sureties  for  his  standing  his 
trial,  he  sent  him  privately  to  Numidia,  being  more  concerned 
for  his  kingdom  than  the  safety  of  his  friends  ;  for  he  was 
fearful,  should  this  favorite  be  punished,  that  the  rest  of  his 
subjects  would  be  discouraged  from  obeying  him.  In  a  few 
days  he  himself  followed,  being  ordered  by  the  senate  to 
depart  out  of  Italy.  When  he  left  Rome,  it  is  reported  that, 
having  frequently  looked  back  to  it  with  fixed  attention,  he 
at  last  broke  out  into  these  words :  "O  venal  city,  and  ripe 
for  destruction  when  a  purchaser  can  be  found." 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  99 


CAIUS  MARIUS  SEEKS  THE  CONSULSHIP. 

About  the  same  time  Marius  happened  to  be  at  Utica,  and 
as  he  was  sacrificing  to  the  gods  the  augur  announced  to  him, 
"that  great  and  wonderful  things  were  presaged  to  him  ;  he 
should  therefore  pursue  whatever  designs  he  had  formed,  and 
trust  to  the  gods  ;  he  might  push  his  fortune  to  the  utmost, 
regardless  of  difficulty  and  confident  of  success." 

Marius  had  been  long  seized  with  an  ardent  desire  of  the 
consulship,  and  possessed  every  qualification  for  obtaining  it, 
except  that  of  noble  descent ;  he  had  industry,  probity,  con- 
summate skill  in  war,  and  an  intrepid  spirit  in  battle  ;  he  dis- 
played a  model  of  temperance,  and,  completely  master  of  his 
passions,  looked  with  indifference  on  wealth  and  pleasure,  but 
was  covetous  of  renown,  and  possessed  an  insatiable  thirst  of 
glory.  He  was  born  at  Arpinum,  where  he  passed  his  child- 
hood, and  from  the  time  that  he  was  capable  of  bearing  arms 
took  no  delight  in  the  study  of  Grecian  eloquence,  nor  in  the 
luxurious  manners  of  Rome,  but  entered  with  ardor  on  the 
military  life,  and  thus  in  a  short  time,  by  a  proper  course  of 
discipline,  acquired  a  masterly  knowledge  in  the  art  of  war ; 
so  that  when  he  first  solicited  from  the  people  the  military 
tribuneship,  although  his  person  was  unknown,  his  character 
obtained  it  by  the  unanimous  suffrages  of  all  the  tribes.  From 
this  time  he  rose  still  higher  in  public  favor,  and  in  every 
office  which  he  filled  still  rendered  himself  worthy  of  greater 
dignity.  Yet  Marius,  with  all  his  merit,  till  this  time  (for 
ambition  afterward  fatally  urged  him  to  the  wildest  excesses) 
had  not  ventured  to  offer  himself  for  the  consulship ;  for  though 
the  people  at  that  time  conferred  all  the  other  offices,  that  of 
consul  was  reserved  for  the  nobility,  and  the  most  renowned 
or  distinguished  by  merit,  unsupported  by  birth,  were  reck- 
oned by  them  unworthy  of  the  supreme  magistracy. 

Marius,  perceiving  that  the  prediction  of  the  augur  was 
agreeable  to  his  own  inclinations,  petitioned  Metellus  for  leave 
to  visit  Rome  as  a  candidate  for  the  consulship.  Metellus, 
though  distinguished  for  his  virtue  and  honor,  and  other  de- 
sirable qualities,  yet  possessed  a  haughty  and  disdainful  spirit, 


ioo  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

the  common  vice  of  the  nobility  :  struck  with  so  extraordinary 
a  request,  he  therefore  expressed  surprise  at  his  designs,  and 
cautioned  him,  as  in  friendship,  not  to  entertain  such  unrea- 
sonable views,  nor  sutler  his  mind  to  be  exalted  above  his 
station.  To  all  men,  he  observed,  the  same  objects  could  not 
be  the  aim  of  reasonable  ambition,  adding  that  Marius  ought 
to  be  contented  with  his  present  fortune  ;  and,  in  a  word,  that 
he  should  take  care  not  to  demand  from  the  Roman  people 
what  they  might  justly  refuse.  After  these  and  the  like  re- 
monstrances, the  consul  still  found  Marius  steady  to  his  pur- 
pose, and  promised  to  comply  with  his  request  as  soon  as  it 
was  consistent  with  the  public  service ;  and  as  he  still  con- 
tinued to  urge  his  petition,  Metellus  is  reported  to  have  told 
him,  "that  it  was  needless  to  be  in  such  a  hurry,  as  it  would 
be  time  enough  for  him  to  think  of  standing  for  the  consul- 
ship when  his  son  should  be  of  age  to  join  with  him. ' '  This 
youth  was  then  about  twenty  years  of  age,  and  serving  under 
his  father  without  any  command. 

This  fired  Marius  with  a  more  ardent  desire  of  obtaining 
the  consulship,  and  highly  incensed  him  against  Metellus  ;  so 
that  he  blindly  followed  the  dictates  of  ambition  and  resent- 
ment, the  most  pernicious  of  counsellors.  He  did  and  said 
every  thing  that  could  promote  his  views  ;  gave  greater  liberty 
to  the  soldiers  under  his  command  than  formerly  ;  inveighed 
severely  to  our  merchants,  then  in  great  numbers  at  Utica, 
against  Metellus' s  manner  of  conducting  the  war  ;  and  boasted 
of  himself,  "that  were  but  half  the  army  under  his  own 
command  he  would  in  a  few  days  have  Jugurtha  in  chains  ; 
that  the  consul  prolonged  the  war  on  purpose,  being  a  vain 
man,  possessed  of  kingly  pride,  and  intoxicated  with  the  love 
of  command."  This  was  the  more  readily  believed  by  the 
merchants,  as  they  had  suffered  in  their  fortunes  by  the  long 
continuance  of  the  war ;  and  to  an  impatient  spirit  no  measures 
appear  sufficiently  expeditious. 


LATIN  UTBRATTJRB. 


101 


CAIUS  JULIUS  CESAR. 

GREATEST  among  the  ancient 
Romans,  Caius  Julius  Csesar  changed 
the  course  of  the  world's  history. 
He  turned  an  aristocratic  republic 
into  a  democratic  empire.  Though 
he  was  removed  by  assassination  in 
the  very  hour  of  his  triumph,  his 
work  remained  and  his  spirit  domi- 
nated the  civilized  world  for  cen- 
turies. One  of  his  names  has  become 
the  title  of  the  autocratic  sovereigns 
of  Europe ;  another  is  imbedded  in 
the  calendar  of  all  Christian  coun- 
tries. It  is  impossible  in  a  work  of 
this  kind  to  set  forth  in  detail  the 
successive  audacities  and  glories  of 
his  career.  Born  of  noble  family  on 
the  1 2th  day  of  the  month  Quintilis 

(afterwards  called  in  his  honor  July),  in  the  year  100  B.C.,  he 
early  engaged  in  party  strife,  contracted  enormous  debts,  but 
won  the  favor  of  the  people,  and  was  raised  in  quick  succes- 
sion to  the  highest  offices  of  state.  He  was  nearly  forty  years 
of  age  when  he  began  his  series  of  foreign  conquests  by 
a  war  in  Spain.  He  reconciled  Pompey  to  Crassus,  the 
wealthiest  man  in  Rome,  and  with  them  formed  the  first 
triumvirate,  to  accomplish  their  respective  designs.  For 
himself  he  obtained  command  of  Gaul  for  five  years,  and 
there,  in  wars  with  various  tribes,  trained  an  army  by  which 
he  hoped  to  terminate  the  party  struggles  at  Rome.  He 
crossed  the  Rhine  into  Germany  and  the  Channel  into  Britain, 
but  effected  no  permanent  conquests  in  either  country.  When 
Pompey  saw  that  his  own  prestige  was  eclipsed  by  that  of  his 
younger  rival,  he  became  estranged.  Caesar  was  ordered  by 
the  Senate  to  disband  his  army,  but  in  defiance  crossed  the 
Rubicon,  the  boundary  of  his  province,  towards  Rome. 
Pompey  saw  his  troops  deserting  him,  and  fled  from  Rome  to 


102  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Capua,  and  thence  to  Greece,  where  he  collected  a  formidable 
army.  Caesar  was  made  dictator,  but  did  not  cross  to  Greece 
until  some  months  later.  At  Pharsalia  the  decisive  battle 
took  place  on  the  9th  of  August,  48  B.C.  Pompey  fled  and 
was  slain  on  the  coast  of  Egypt.  Caesar  was  now  master  of 
the  Roman  world  and,  though  careless  of  human  life  in 
time  of  war,  used  his  power  with  marked  clemency.  His 
victories  in  Gaul,  Egypt,  Pontus  and  Africa  were  celebrated 
with  magnificent  triumphs ;  but  there  was  none  for  his  vic- 
tory in  the  Civil  War.  Although  he  inaugurated  numerous 
schemes  for  the  benefit  of  the  Roman  people,  the  patricians 
could  not  witness  his  success  without  envy.  He  was  already 
dictator,  and  was  made  imperator  (emperor)  for  life,  but  after 
a  movement  was  begun  to  bestow  on  him  the  hated  title  of 
king,  he  was  assassinated  in  the  Senate  house  on  the  1 5th  of 
March,  44  B.C. 

This  great  statesman  and  general  was  gifted  by  nature 
with  the  most  varied  talents,  and  excelled  in  the  most  diverse 
pursuits.  He  was  an  accomplished  orator  and  a  profound 
jurist.  He  holds  high  rank  in  literature  by  brief  and  per- 
spicuous narratives  of  the  Gallic  and  Civil  wars  in  which  he 
was  engaged.  These  "Commentaries,"  as  he  chose  to  call 
them  rather  than  histories,  are  models  of  historical  composi- 
tion. His  style  is  noted  for  its  purity  and  elegance.  In 
youth  he  wrote  some  poems,  which  were  suppressed  by  Au- 
gustus ;  in  later  life  he  did  not  disdain  to  compose  some 
grammatical  treatises,  of  which  a  few  fragments  remain. 
But  the  world  has  especially  cherished  and  admired  his 
modest  narrative  of  his  astonishing  career  in  Gaul. 

CESAR'S  FIRST  INVASION  OF  BRITAIN. 

Though  but  a  small  part  of  the  summer  now  remained, 
Caesar  resolved  to  pass  over  into  Britain,  having  certain  intel- 
ligence that  in  all  his  wars  with  the  Gauls,  the  enemies  of  the 
commonwealth  had  ever  received  assistance  from  thence.  He 
indeed  foresaw  that  the  season  of  the  year  would  not  permit 
him  to  finish  the  war ;  yet  he  thought  it  would  be  of  no  small 
advantage  if  he  should  but  take  a  view  of  the  island,  learn 


LATIN  LITERATURE;.  103 

the  nature  of  the  inhabitants,  and  acquaint  himself  with  the 
coast,  harbors  and  landing  places,  to  all  which  the  Gauls 
were  perfect  strangers,  for  almost  none  but  merchants  resort 
to  that  island,  nor  have  even  they  any  knowledge  of  the  coun- 
try, except  the  sea  coast  and  the  parts  opposite  to  Gaul.  Before 
he  embarked  himself,  he  thought  proper  to  send  C.  Volusenus 
with  a  galley  to  get  some  knowledge  of  these  things,  com- 
manding him,  as  soon  as  he  had  informed  himself  in  what  he 
wanted  to  know,  to  return  with  all  expedition.  He  himself 
marched  with  his  whole  army  into  the  territory  of  the  Morini, 
because  thence  was  the  nearest  passage  into  Britain.  Here 
he  ordered  a  great  many  ships  from  the  neighboring  ports  to 
attend  him,  and  the  fleet  he  had  made  use  of  the  year  before 
in  the  Venetian  war. 

Meanwhile,  the  Britons  having  notice  of  his  design  by  the 
merchants  that  resorted  to  their  island,  ambassadors  from 
many  of  their  states  came  to  Caesar  with  an  offer  of  hostages 
and  submission  to  the  authority  of  the  people  of  Rome.  To 
these  he  gave  a  favorable  audience,  and,  exhorting  them  to 
continue  in  the  same  mind,  sent  them  back  into  their  own 
country.  Along  with  them  he  dispatched  Comius,  whom  he 
had  appointed  king  of  the  Atrebatians,  a  man  in  whose  virtue, 
wisdom  and  fidelity  he  greatly  confided,  and  whose  authority 
in  the  island  was  very  considerable.  To  him  he  gave  it  in 
charge  to  visit  as  many  states  as  he  could  and  persuade  them 
to  enter  into  an  alliance  with  the  Romans,  letting  them  know 
at  the  same  time  that  Caesar  designed  as  soon  as  possible  to 
come  over  in  person  to  their  island.  Volusenus,  having  taken 
a  view  of  the  country,  as  far  as  was  possible  for  one  who  had 
resolved  not  to  quit  his  ship  or  trust  himself  in  the  hands  of 
the  barbarians,  returned  on  the  fifth  day  and  acquainted  Cassar 
with  his  discoveries. 

Cassar,  having  got  together  about  eighty  transports,  which 
he  thought  would  be  sufficient  for  carrying  over  two  legions, 
distributed  the  galleys  he  had  over  and  above  to  the  ques- 
tor,  lieutenants  and  officers  of  the  cavalry.  There  were,  be- 
sides, eighteen  transports  detained  by  contrary  winds  at  a  port 
about  eight  miles  ofF,  which  he  appointed  to  carry  over  the 
cavalry. 


104  UTBRATURB  OF  Alii,  NATIONS. 

The  wind  springing  up  fair,  he  weighed  anchor  about  one 
in  the  morning,  ordering  the  cavalry  to  embark  at  the  other 
port  and  follow  him.  But  as  these  orders  were  executed  but 
slowly,  he  himself  about  ten  in  the  morning  reached  the  coast 
of  Britain,  where  he  saw  all  the  cliffs  covered  with  the  enemy's 
forces.  The  nature  of  the  place  was  such  that  the  sea  being 
bounded  by  steep  mountains,  the  enemy  might  easily  launch 
their  javelins  upon  us  from  above.  Not  thinking  this,  there- 
fore, a  convenient  landing  place,  he  resolved  to  lie  by  till  three 
in  the  afternoon  and  wait  the  arrival  of  the  rest  of  his  fleet. 
Meanwhile ,  having  called  the  lieutenants  and  military  tribunes 
together,  he  informed  them  of  what  he  had  learned  from  Vo- 
lusenus,  instructed  them  in  the  part  they  were  to  act,  and 
particularly  exhorted  them  to  do  everything  with  readiness 
and  at  a  signal  given,  agreeably  to  the  rules  of  military 
discipline,  since  sea  affairs  especially  require  expedition  and 
dispatch,  because  the  most  changeable  and  uncertain  of  all. 
Having  dismissed  them,  and  finding  both  the  wind  and  tide 
favorable,  he  made  the  signal  for  weighing  anchor,  and  after 
sailing  about  eight  miles  farther,  stopped  over  against  a  plain 
and  open  shore.  • 

But  the  barbarians,  perceiving  our  design,  sent  forward 
their  cavalry  and  chariots,  which  they  frequently  make  use 
of  in  battle,  and  following  with  the  rest  of  their  forces, 
endeavored  to  oppose  our  landing ;  and  indeed  we  found  the 
difficulty  very  great  on  many  accounts ;  for  our  ships  being 
large,  required  a  great  depth  of  water ;  and  the  soldiers,  who 
were  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  places,  and  had  their 
hands  embarrassed  and  loaded  with  a  weight  of  armor,  were 
at  the  same  time  to  leap  from  the  ships,  stand  breast  high 
amidst  the  waves,  and  encounter  the  enemy,  while  they, 
fighting  upon  dry  ground,  or  advancing  only  a  little  way  into 
the  water,  having  the  free  use  of  all  their  limbs,  and  in  places 
which  they  perfectly  knew,  could  boldly  cast  their  darts,  and 
spur  on  their  horses,  well  inured  to  that  kind  of  service.  All 
these  circumstances  serving  to  spread  a  terror  among  our 
men,  who  were  wholly  strangers  to  this  way  of  fighting,  they 
did  not  push  the  enemy  with  the  same  vigor  and  spirit  as  was 
usual  for  them  in  combats  upon  dry  ground. 


UTERATURB.  105 

Caesar,  observing  this,  ordered  some  galleys,  a  kind  of 
vessels  less  common  with  the  barbarians,  and  more  easily 
governed  and  put  in  motion,  to  advance  a  little  from  the 
transports  towards  the  shore,  in  order  to  set  upon  the  enemy 
in  flank,  and  by  means  of  their  engines,  slings,  and  arrows, 
drive  them  to  some  distance.  This  proved  of  considerable 
service  to  our  men,  for  what  with  the  surprise  occasioned  by 
the  shape  of  our  galleys,  the  motion  of  the  oars,  and  the 
playing  of  the  engines,  the  enemy  were  forced  to  halt,  and  in  a 
little  time  began  to  give  back.  But  when  our  men  still  delayed 
to  leap  into  the  sea,  chiefly  because  of  the  depth  of  the  water 
in  those  places,  the  standard-bearer  of  the  tenth  legion, 
having  first  invoked  the  gods  for  success,  cried  out  aloud : 
"Follow  me,  fellow-soldiers,  unless  you  will  betray  the  Roman 
eagle  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  ;  for  my  part,  I  am  resolved 
to  discharge  my  duty  to  Caesar  and  the  commonwealth." 
Upon  this  he  jumped  into  the  sea,  and  advanced  with  the  eagle 
against  the  enemy  ;  whereat,  our  men  exhorting  one  another 
to  prevent  so  signal  a  disgrace,  all  that  were  in  the  ship  fol- 
lowed him.  When  this  was  perceived  by  those  in  the  nearest 
vessels,  they  did  likewise,  and  boldly  approached  the  enemy. 

The  battle  was  obstinate  on  both  sides ;  but  our  men,  as 
being  neither  able  to  keep  their  ranks,  nor  get  firm  footing, 
nor  follow  their  respective  standards,  because  leaping  pro- 
miscuously from  their  ships,  every  one  joined  the  first  ensign 
he  met,  were  thereby  thrown  into  great  confusion.  The 
enemy,  on  the  other  hand,  being  well  acquainted  with  the 
shallows,  when  they  saw  our  men  advancing  singly  from  the 
ships,  spurred  on  their  horses,  and  attacked  them  in  that  per- 
plexity. In  one  place  great  numbers  would  gather  round  an 
handful  of  the  Romans ;  others  falling  upon  them  in  flank, 
galled  them  mightily  with  their  darts,  which  Caesar  observ- 
ing, ordered  some  small  boats  to  be  manned,  and  ply  about 
with  recruits.  By  this  means  the  foremost  ranks  of  our  men 
having  got  firm  footing,  were  followed  by  all  the  rest,  when 
falling  upon  the  enemy  briskly,  they  were  soon  put  to  rout. 
But  as  the  cavalry  were  not  yet  arrived,  we  could  not  pursue 
or  advance  far  into  the  island,  which  was  the  only  thing 
wanting  to  render  the  victory  complete. 


106  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  enemy  being  thus  vanquished  in  battle,  no  sooner  got 
together  after  their  defeat,  than  they  dispatched  ambassadors 
to  Caesar  to  sue  for  peace,  offering  hostages,  and  an  entire 
submission  to  his  commands.  Along  with  these  ambassadors 
came  Comius  the  Atrebatian,  whom  Caesar,  as  we  have 
related  above,  had  sent  before  him  into  Britain.  The  natives 
seized  him  as  soon  as  he  landed,  and  though  he  was  charged 
with  a  commission  from  Caesar,  threw  him  into  irons.  But 
upon  their  late  defeat,  they  thought  proper  to  send  him  back, 
throwing  the  blame  of  what  had  happened  upon  the  multi- 
tude, and  begged  of  Caesar  to  excuse  a  fault  proceeding  from 
ignorance.  Caesar,  after  some  complaints  of  their  behavior, 
in  that  having  of  their  own  accord  sent  ambassadors  to  the 
Continent  to  sue  for  peace,  they  had  yet  without  any  reason 
begun  a  war  against  him,  told  them  at  last  he  would  forgive 
their  fault,  and  ordered  them  to  send  a  certain  number  of 
hostages.  Part  were  sent  immediately,  and  the  rest,  as  living 
at  some  distance,  they  promised  to  .deliver  in  a  few  days. 
Meantime  they  disbanded  their  troops,  and  the  several  chiefs 
came  to  Caesar's  camp  to  manage  their  own  concerns  and 
those  of  the  states  to  which  they  belonged. 

A  peace  being  thus  concluded  four  days  after  Caesar's 
arrival  in  Britain,  the  eighteen  transports  appointed  to  carry 
the  cavalry,  of  whom  we  have  spoken  above,  put  to  sea  with 
a  gentle  gale.  But  when  they  had  so  near  approached  the 
coast  as  to  be  even  within  view  of  the  camp,  so  violent  a 
storm  suddenly  arose,  that  being  unable  to  hold  on  their 
course,  some  were  obliged  to  return  to  the  port  whence  they 
set  out,  and  others  were  driven  to  the  lower  end  of  the  island, 
westward,  not  without  great  danger ;  there  they  cast  anchor, 
but  the  waves  rising  very  high,  so  as  to  fill  the  ships  with 
water,  they  were  again  in  the  night  obliged  to  stand  out  to 
sea,  and  make  for  the  Continent  of  Gaul.  That  very  night  it 
happened  to  be  full  moon,  when  the  tides  upon  the  sea  coast 
always  rise  highest,  a  thing  at  that  time  wholly  unknown  to 
the  Romans.  Thus  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  galleys 
which  Caesar  made  use  of  to  transport  his  men,  and  which  he 
had  ordered  to  be  drawn  up  on  the  strand,  were  filled  with  the 
tide,  and  the  tempest  fell  furiously  upon  the  transports  that 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  107 

lay  at  anchor  in  the  road ;  nor  was  it  possible  for  our  men  to 
attempt  anything  for  their  preservation.  Many  of  the  ships 
being  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  rest  having  lost  their  anchors, 
tackle,  and  rigging,  which  rendered  them  altogether  unfit  for 
sailing,  a  general  consternation  spread  itself  through  the 
camp  ;  for  there  were  no  other  ships  to  carry  back  the  troops, 
nor  any  materials  to  repair  those  that  had  been  disabled  by 
the  tempest.  And  as  it  had  been  all  along  Caesar's  design  to 
winter  in  Gaul,  he  was  wholly  without  grain  to  subsist  the 
troops  in  those  parts. 

All  this  being  known  to  the  British  chiefs,  who  after  the 
battle  had  repaired  to  Caesar's  camp,  to  perform  the  conditions 
of  the  treaty,  they  began  to  hold  conferences  among  them- 
selves ;  and  as  they  plainly  saw  that  the  Romans  were  desti- 
tute both  of  cavalry,  shipping,  and  grain,  and  easily  judged 
from  the  smallness  of  the  camp,  that  the  number  of  their 
troops  was  but  inconsiderable ;  in  which  notion  they  were 
the  more  confirmed,  because  Caesar  having  brought  over  the 
legions  without  baggage,  had  occasion  to  inclose  but  a  small 
spot  of  ground  \  they  thought  this  a  convenient  opportunity 
for  taking  up  arms,  and  by  intercepting  the  Roman  convoys, 
to  protract  the  affair  till  winter ;  being  confidently  persuaded, 
that  by  defeating  these  troops,  or  cutting  off  their  return, 
they  should  effectually  put  a  stop  to  all  future  attempts  upon 
Britain.  Having,  therefore,  entered  into  a  joint  confederacy, 
they  by  degrees  left  the  camp,  and  began  to  draw  the  islanders 
together ;  but  Caesar,  though  he  was  not  yet  apprized  of 
their  design,  yet  guessing  in  part  at  their  intentions,  by  the 
disaster  which  had  befallen  his  fleet,  and  their  delays  in 
relation  to  the  hostages,  determined  to  provide  against  all 
chances.  He,  therefore,  had  grain  daily  brought  in  to  his 
camp,  and  ordered  the  timber  of  the  ships  that  had  been  most 
damaged  to  be  made  use  of  in  repairing  the  rest,  sending  to 
Gaul  for  what  other  materials  he  wanted.  As  the  soldiers 
were  indefatigable  in  this  service,  his  fleet  was  soon  in  a  con- 
dition to  sail,  having  lost  only  twelve  ships. 

During  these  transactions,  the  seventh  legion  being  sent 
out  to  forage,  according  to  custom,  as  part  were  employed  in 
cutting  down  the  grain,  and  part  in  carrying  it  to  the  camp, 


108  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

without  suspicion  of  attack,  news  was  brought  to  Caesar,  that 
a  greater  cloud  of  dust  than  ordinary  was  seen  on  that  side 
where  the  legion  was.  Caesar,  suspecting  how  matters  went, 
marched  with  the  cohorts  that  were  upon  guard,  ordering 
two  others  to  take  their  places,  and  all  the  soldiers  in  the 
camp  to  arm  and  follow  him  as  soon  as  possible.  When  he 
was  advanced  a  little  way  from  the  camp,  he  saw  his  men 
overpowered  by  the  enemy,  and  with  great  difficulty  able  to 
sustain  the  fight,  being  driven  into  a  small  compass,  and 
exposed  on  every  side  to  the  darts  of  their  adversaries.  For 
as  the  harvest  had  been  gathered  in  everywhere  else,  and  only 
one  field  left,  the  enemy  suspecting  that  our  men  would  come 
thither  to  forage,  had  hid  themselves  during  the  night  in  the 
woods,  and  waiting  till  our  men  had  quitted  their  arms,  and 
dispersed  themselves  for  reaping,  they  suddenly  attacked 
them,  killed  some,  put  the  rest  into  disorder,  and  began  to 
surround  them  with  their  horses  and  chariots. 

Their  way  of  fighting  with  their  chariots  is  this :  first 
they  drive  their  chariots  on  all  sides,  and  throw  their  darts, 
insomuch,  that  by  the  very  terror  of  the  horses,  and  noise  of 
the  wheels,  they  often  break  the  ranks  of  the  enemy.  When 
they  have  forced  their  way  into  the  midst  of  the  cavalry, 
they  quit  their  chariots,  and  fight  on  foot ;  meantime  the 
drivers  retire  a  little  from  the  combat,  and  place  themselves 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  favor  the  retreat  of  their  countrymen, 
should  they  be  overpowered  by  the  enemy.  Thus  in  action 
they  perform  the  part  both  of  nimble  horsemen  and  stable 
infantry ;  and  by  continual  exercise  and  use  have  arrived  at 
such  expertness,  that  in  the  most  steep  and  difficult  places 
they  can  stop  their  horses  upon  a  full  stretch,  turn  them 
which  way  they  please,  run  along  the  pole,  rest  on  the 
harness,  and  throw  themselves  back  into  their  chariots  with 
incredible  dexterity. 

Our  men  being  astonished  and  confounded  with  this  new 
way  of  fighting,  Caesar  came  very  timely  to  theit  relief;  for 
upon  his  approach  the  enemy  made  a  stand,  and  the  Romans 
began  to  recover  from  their  fear.  This  satisfied  Caesar  for  the 
present,  who  not  thinking  it  a  proper  season  to  provoke  the 
enemy,  and  bring  on  a  general  engagement,  stood  facing  them 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  109 

for  some  time,  and  then  led  back  the  legions  to  the  camp.  The 
continual  rains  that  followed  for  some  days  after,  both  kept 
the  Romans  within  their  intreuchments,  and  withheld  the 
enemy  from  attacking  us.  Meantime  the  Britons  dispatched 
messengers  into  all  parts,  to  make  known  to  their  country- 
men the  small  number  of  the  Roman  troops  and  the  favora- 
ble opportunity  they  had  of  making  immense  spoils  and 
freeing  their  country  for  ever  from  all  future  invasions  by 
storming  the  enemy's  camp.  Having  by  this  means  got 
together  a  great  body  of  infantry  and  cavalry,  they  drew 
towards  our  intrenchments. 

Csesar,  though  he  foresaw  that  the  enemy,  if  beaten,  would 
in  the  same  manner  as  before  escape  the  danger  by  flight ; 
yet  having  got  about  thirty  horse,  whom  Comius  the  Atre- 
batian  had  brought  over  with  him  from  Gaul,  he  drew  up  the 
legions  in  order  of  battle  before  the  camp ;  and  falling  upon 
the  Britons,  who  were  not  able  to  sustain  the  shock  of  our 
men,  soon  put  them  to  flight.  The  Romans,  pursuing  them 
as  long  as  their  strength  would  permit,  made  a  terrible 
slaughter,  and  setting  fire  to  their  houses  and  villages  a  great 
way  round,  returned  to  the  camp. 

The  same  day  ambassadors  came  from  the  enemy  to  Caesar, 
to  sue  for  peace.  Caesar  doubled  the  number  of  hostages 
he  had  before  imposed  upon  them,  and  ordered  them  to  be 
sent  over  to  him  into  Gaul,  because  the  equinox  coming  on, 
and  his  ships  being  leaky,  he  thought  it  not  prudent  to  put 
off  his  return  till  winter.  A  fair  wind  offering,  he  set  sail  a 
little  after  midnight,  and  arrived  safe  in  Gaul. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  PHARSALIA. 

THERE  was  as  much  space  left  between  the  two  lines  as 
sufficed  for  the  onset  of  the  hostile  armies ;  but  Pompey  had 
ordered  his  soldiers  to  await  Caesar's  attack,  and  not  to 
advance  from  their  positions,  or  suffer  their  line  to  be  put  into 
disorder.  And  he  is  said  to  have  done  this  by  advice  of  Caius 
Triarius,  that  the  impetuosity  of  the  charge  of  Caesar's  sol- 
diers might  be  checked  and  their  line  broken,  and  that 
Pompey 's  troops,  remaining  in  their  ranks,  might  attack 


no  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

them  when  in  disorder ;  and  he  thought  that  the  javelins 
would  fall  with  less  force  if  the  soldiers  were  kept  on  their 
ground  than  if  they  met  them  in  full  course ;  at  the  same 
time  he  trusted  that  Caesar' s  soldiers,  after  running  over  double 
the  usual  ground,  would  become  exhausted  by  the  fatigue. 
But  to  me  Pompey  seems  to  have  acted  without  sufficient 
reason ;  for  there  is  a  certain  impetuosity  of  spirit  and  an 
alacrity  implanted  by  nature  in  the  hearts  of  all  men,  which 
is  inflamed  by  a  desire  to  meet  the  foe.  This  a  general 
should  endeavor  not  to  repress,  but  to  increase ;  nor  was  it  a 
vain  institution  of  our  ancestors  that  the  trumpets  should 
sound  on  all  sides  and  a  general  shout  be  raised ;  by  which 
they  imagined  that  the  enemy  were  struck  with  terror,  and 
their  own  army  inspired  with  courage. 

But  our  men,  when  the  signal  was  given,  rushed  forward 
with  their  javelins  ready  to  be  launched,  but  perceiving  that 
Pompey 's  men  did  not  run  to  meet  the  charge,  having  acquired 
experience  by  custom,  and  being  practiced  in  former  battles, 
they  of  their  own  accord  repressed  their  speed  and  halted 
almost  midway,  that  they  might  not  come  up  with  the  enemy 
when  their  strength  was  exhausted  ;  and  after  a  short  respite 
they  again  renewed  their  course  and  threw  their  javelins,  and 
instantly  drew  their  swords,  as  Caesar  had  ordered  them. 
Nor  did  Pompey 's  men  fail  in  this  crisis,  for  they  received 
our  javelins,  stood  our  charge,  and  maintained  their  ranks ; 
and  having  launched  their  javelins,  had  recourse  to  their 
swords.  At  the  same  time  Pompey 's  horsemen,  according  to 
their  orders,  rushed  out  at  once  from  his  left  wing,  and  his 
whole  host  of  archers  poured  after  them.  Our  cavalry  did  not 
withstand  their  charge,  but  gave  ground  a  little,  upon  which 
Pompey 's  troops  pressed  them  more  vigorously,  and  began  to 
file  off  in  troops  and  flank  our  army. 

When  Caesar  perceived  this  he  gave  the  signal  to  his  fourth 
line,  which  he  had  formed  of  the  six  cohorts.  They  instantly 
rushed  forward  and  charged  Pompey 's  cavalry  with  such  fury 
that  not  a  man  of  them  stood ;  but  all  wheeling  about,  not 
only  quitted  their  posts,  but  galloped  forward  to  seek  refuge 
in  the  highest  mountains.  By  their  retreat  the  archers  and 
slingers,  being  left  destitute  and  defenseless,  were  all  cut  to 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  Ill 

pieces.  The  cohorts,  pursuing  their  success,  wheeled  about 
upon  Poinpey's  left  wing,  while  his  infantry  still  continued 
to  make  battle,  and  taking  them  in  the  rear  at  the  same  time 
Caesar  ordered  the  third  line  to  advance,  which  till  then  had  not 
been  engaged,  but  had  kept  their  post.  These  new  and  fresh 
troops  having  come  to  the  assistance  of  the  fatigued,  and 
others  having  made  an  attack  upon  their  rear,  Pompey's  men 
were  not  able  to  maintain  their  ground,  but  all  fled ;  nor 
was  Csesar  mistaken  in  his  opinion,  that  the  victory,  as  he  had 
declared  in  his  speech  to  the  soldiers,  must  have  its  beginning 
from  these  six  cohorts,  which  he  had  placed  as  the  fourth  line 
to  oppose  the  horse.  For  by  them  the  cavalry  were  routed, 
by  them  the  archers  and  slingers  were  cut  to  pieces,  by  them 
the  left  wing  of  Pompey's  army  was  surrounded  and  obliged 
to  be  the  first  to  fly 

In  Pompey'*s  camp  you  might  see  arbors,  in  which  tablei 
laid ;  a  large  quantity  of  plate  set  out ;  the  floors  of  the  tents 
covered  with  fresh  sods ;  the  tents  of  Lucius  Lentulus  and 
others  shaded  with  ivy  ;  and  many  other  things  which  were 
proofs  of  excessive  luxury  and  a  confidence  of  victory ;  so 
that  it  might  readily  be  inferred  that  they  had  no  premoni- 
tions of  the  issue  of  the  day,  as  they  indulged  themselves 
in  unnecessary  pleasures,  and  yet  upbraided  with  luxury 
Ceesar's  army,  distressed  and  suffering  troops,  who  had  always 
been  in  want  of  common  necessaries. 

Pompey,  as  soon  as  our  men  had  forced  the  trenches, 
mounting  his  horse  and  stripping  off  his  general's  habit, 
went  hastily  out  of  the  back  gate  of  the  camp,  and  galloped 
with  all  speed  to  Larissa.  Nor  did  he  stop  there,  but  with  the 
same  dispatch,  collecting  a  few  of  his  flying  troops,  and  halt- 
ing neither  day  nor  night,  he  arrived  at  the  sea-shore  attended 
by  only  thirty  horsemen,  and  went  on  board  a  victualling 
bark,  often  complaining,  as  we  have  been  told,  that  he  had 
been  so  deceived  in  his  expectation,  that  he  was  almost  per- 
suaded that  he  had  been  betrayed  by  those  from  whom  he 
had  expected  victory,  wheii  they  began  the  fight. 


VIRGIL  takes  the  highest  rank  among  the  Roman  poets. 
He  was  the  poetical  representative  of  the  Augustan  age  in 
sentiment,  in  ethics,  in  culture  and  style.  He  gave  to  the 
Homeric  epic  that  polish  which  was  necessary  to  procure  its 
acceptance  by  imperial  Rome  and  to  transmit  it  to  the  Western 
nations.  Publius  Virgilius  Maro  (whose  name  is  said  to  be 
more  correctly  spelled  Vergilius)  was  born  in  the  year  70 B.C., 
in  Andes,  near  Mantua.  He  acquired  the  rudiments  of  a  liberal 
education  at  Cremona,  Milan  and  Naples.  He  seems  to  have 
settled  down  to  the  composition  of  the  eclogues  in  his  native 
place,  but  owing  to  the  public  distribution  of  land  which 
took  place  after  the  battle  of  Philippi,  he  was  deprived  of 
his  hereditary  farm.  This,  however,  he  recovered  by  the  aid 
of  Pollio  and  Maecenas  when  he  went  to  Rome.  Henceforth 
he  was  a  court  favorite,  and  one  of  the  galaxy  of  literary  cele- 
brities and  associates  of  Maecenas.  In  B.C.  19  he  set  out  to 
make  a  tour  of  Greece,  but  having  met  the  Bmperor  Augustus 
at  Athens  was  persuaded  to  return  with  him.  He  was  in 
feeble  health  ;  his  sickness  was  aggravated  by  the  homeward 
voyage,  and  resulted  in  his  death  on  landing  at  Brundusium. 
It  is  said  that  in  his  last  moments  he  called  for  the  manuscript 
of  the  ^Eneid  with  the  intention  of  burning  it,  but  was  dis- 
suaded by  his  friends.  His  executors  were  enjoined  not  to 
publish  any  thing  but  what  he  himself  had  already  edited. 
By  order  of  Augustus  this  injunction  was  disregarded,  and  the 
was  published. 

Virgil's  reputation   among  his  contemporaries  was  first 


112 


tATlN  LITERATURE.  11$ 

established  by  the  Bucolics  or  Eclogues,  partly  pastoral,  partly 
laudatory,  written  in  imitation  of  Theocritus,  but  more  arti- 
ficial in  style  than  the  natural  outpourings  of  the  Sicilian 
poet.  In  the  Georgics,  Virgil,  taking  Hesiod  as  his  model, 
gives  a  faithful  portrayal  of  Italian  life.  The  poem  is  dedi- 
cated to  Maecenas,  who  had  suggested  the  subject  to  the  author. 
It  is  divided  into  four  books  ;  the  first  relating  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  fields,  the  second  to  trees,  the  third  to  cattle,  and  the 
fourth  to  bees.  The  poem  is  entirely  didactic,  its  object  being 
to  draw  men's  minds  back  to  agriculture  at  a  time  when  war 
had  devastated  the  country.  Throughout  the  Georgics  the 
didactic  element  is  often  almost  lost  to  sight  in  passages  beau, 
tifully  descriptive  and  highly  poetical.  But  the  work  by 
which  Virgil  lives  in  the  memory  of  men  is  the  ^)neid.  It  is 
the  great  epic  of  the  Roman  race,  and  expresses  the  national 
sentiment  of  pride,  ambition,  love  of  country  and  hatred  of 
other  races.  Though  imperfect  as  an  epic,  it  remains  "a 
poem  of  marvellous  grace,  evidencing  culture  most  elaborate 
and  refined."  It  was  founded  on  the  two  great  poems  of 
Homer ;  the  first  six  books,  describing  the  wanderings  of 
-ZEneas  after  the  downfall  of  Troy,  correspond  to  the  Odyssey ; 
while  the  last  six  books,  showing  his  efforts  to  establish  his 
colony  in  Italy,  resemble  in  less  degree  the  Iliad.  In  the 
first  book  ^Sneas  while  sailing  westward  from  Troy  is  driven 
by  a  storm  to  Carthage,  where  he  is  hospitably  received  by 
Queen  Dido.  In  the  second  book  the  capture  and  destruction 
of  Troy  is  related  by  JEneas  to  Dido.  The  fourth  book  des- 
cribes her  ill-fated  love  for  the  Trojan  leader,  who  abandons 
her.  Here,  more  than  in  any  other  part,  Virgil  appears  to 
sound  a  modern  note.  The  fifth  book  brings  JSneas  to  Sicily, 
and  the  sixth  to  Italy,  the  latter  being  chiefly  occupied  with 
his  descent  to  the  underworld,  where  his  father  reveals  the 
future  heroes  of  Rome.  In  the  later  books  ^neas  obtains  in 
marriage  Lavinia,  daughter  of  King  Latinus.  The  valiant 
Turnus,  to  whom  she  had  been  betrothed,  disputes  his  right, 
but  is  slain  by  his  rival  in  battle. 

Virgil  was  popular  in  his  own  day  ;  he  was  esteemed  by 
the  emperor  and  loved  by  the  people.     He  was  modest  almost 
to  shyness,  but  simple,  candid,  and  full  of  human  sympathy, 
iv— 8 


114  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


TlTYRUS  AND  MELIBCEUS. 

IN  this  First  Eclogue,  under  a  transparent  disguise,  are  set  forth 
the  sufferings  of  Virgil  (Tityrus)  and  his  neighbors  near  Mantua, 
when  their  lands  were  distributed  to  the  victorious  soldiers  of  Augus- 
tus, and  also  the  special  favor  which  Virgil  received  from  the  emperor 
in  having  his  farm  restored. 

Melibceus.  Beneath  the  shade  which  beechen  boughs 

diffuse, 

You,  Tityrus,  entertain  your  sylvan  muse. 
Round  the  wide  world  in  banishment  we  roam, 
Forc'd  from  our  pleasing  fields  and  native  home ; 
While,  stretch' d  at  ease,  you  sing  your  happy  loves, 
And  "Amaryllis"  fills  the  shady  groves. 

Tityrus.  These  blessings,  friend,  a  deity  bestow' d; 
For  never  can  I  deem  him  less  than  God. 
The  tender  firstlings  of  my  woolly  breed 
Shall  on  his  holy  altar  often  bleed. 
He  gave  my  kine  to  graze  the  flow'ry  plain, 
And  to  my  pipe  renew' d  the  rural  strain. 

Mel.  I  envy  not  your  fortune,  but  admire, 
That,  while  the  raging  sword  and  wasteful  fire 
Destroy  the  wretched  neighborhood  around, 
No  hostile  arms  approach  your  happy  ground. 
Far  different  is  my  fate :  my  feeble  goats 
With  pains  I  drive  from  their  forsaken  cotes. 
This  one,  you  see,  I  scarcely  drag  along, 
Who,  yearning,  on  the  rocks  has  left  her  young ; 
The  hope  and  promise  of  my  falling  fold. 
My  loss,  by  dire  portents  the  gods  foretold  ; 
For,  had  I  not  been  blind,  I  might  have  seen — 
Yon  riven  oak,  the  fairest  of  the  green, 
And  the  hoarse  raven,  on  the  blasted  bough, 
By  croaking  from  the  left,  presaged  the  coming  blow. 
But  tell  me,  Tityrus,  what  heavenly  power 
Preserved  your  fortune  in  that  fatal  hour  ? 

Tit.  Fool  that  I  was,  I  thought  imperial  Rome 
Like  Mantua,  where  on  market  days  we  come, 
And  thither  drive  our  tender  lambs  from  home. 
So  kids  and  whelps  their  sires  and  dams  express ; 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  115 

And  so  the  great  I  measur'd  by  the  less. 

But  country  towns,  compar'd  with  her,  appear 

Like  shrubs,  when  lofty  cypresses  are  near. 

Mel.  What  great  occasion  called  you  hence  to  Rome  ? 

Tit.  Freedom,  which  came  at  length,  though  slow  to 

come. 

Nor  did  my  search  of  liberty  begin 
Till  my  black  hairs  were  changed  upon  my  chin ; 
Nor  Amaryllis  would  vouchsafe  a  look, 
Till  Galatea's  meaner  bonds  I  broke. 
Till  then,  a  hapless,  hopeless,  homely  swain, 
I  sought  not  freedom,  nor  aspired  to  gain : 
Though  many  a  victim  from  my  folds  was  bought 
And  many  a  cheese  to  country  markets  brought, 
Yet  all  the  little  that  I  got,  I  spent, 
And  still  returned  as  empty  as  I  went. 

Mel.  We  stood  amazed  to  see  your  mistress  mourn, 
Unknowing  that  she  pined  for  your  return ; 
We  wondered  why  she  kept  her  fruit  so  long, 
For  whom  so  late  the  ungathered  apples  hung. 
But  now  the  wonder  ceases,  since  I  see 
She  kept  them,  only,  Tityrus,  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  bubbling  springs  appeared  to  mourn, 
And  whisp'ring  pines  made  vows  for  thy  return. 

Tit.  What  should  I  do? — While  here  I  was  enchain'd, 
No  glimpse  of  god-like  liberty  remained ; 
Nor  could  I  hope  in  any  place  but  there, 
To  find  a  god  so  present  to  my  prayer. 
There  first  the  youth  of  heavenly  birth  I  viewed, 
For  whom  our  monthly  victims  are  renewed. 
He  heard  my  vows,  and  graciously  decreed 
My  grounds  to  be  restored,  my  former  flocks  to  feed* 

Mel.  O  fortunate  old  man  !  whose  farm  remains — 
For  3>ou  sufficient — and  requites  your  pains ; 
Though  rushes  overspread  the  neighb' ring  plains, 
Though  here  the  marshy  grounds  approach  your  fields, 
And  there  the  soil  a  stony  harvest  yields. 
Your  teeming  ewes  shall  no  strange  meadows  try, 
Nor  fear  a  rot  from  tainted  company, 
Behold  !   yon  bord'ring  fence  of  sallow  trees 
Is  fraught  with  flow'rs,  the  flow'rs  are  fraught  with  bees — 
The  busy  bees,  with  a  soft  murmuring  strain, 


Il6  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Invite  to  gentle  sleep  the  lab'ring  swain, 
While,  from  the  neighb'ring  rock,  with  rural  songs, 
The  pruner's  voice  the  pleasing  dream  prolongs, 
Stock-doves  and  turtles  tell  their  am'rous  pain, 
And  from  the  lofty  elms,  of  love  complain. 

Tit.  Th'  inhabitants  of  seas  and  skies  shall  change, 
And  fish  on  shore,  and  stags  in  air  shall  range, 
The  banish' d  Parthian  dwell  on  Arar's  brink, 
And  the  fair  German  shall  the  Tigris  drink, 
Ere  I,  forsaking  gratitude  and  truth, 
Forget  the  figure  of  that  godlike  youth. 

Mel.  But  we  must  beg  our  bread  in  climes  unknown, 
Beneath  the  scorching  or  the  freezing  zone  : 
And  some  to  far  Oaxis  shall  be  sold, 
Or  try  the  Libyan  heat  or  Scythian  cold ; 
The  rest  among  the  Britons  be  confin'd, 
A  race  of  men  from  all  the  world  disjoin' d. 
Oh !  must  the  wretched  exiles  ever  mourn, 
Nor,  after  length  of  rolling  years,  return  ? 
Are  we  condemn' d  by  fate's  unjust  decree, 
No  more  our  houses  and  our  homes  to  see  ? 
Or  shall  we  mount  again  the  rural  throne, 
And  rule  the  country  kingdoms  once  our  own ; 
Did  we  for  these  barbarians  plant  and  sow  ? 
On  these — on  these — our  happy  fields  bestow  ? 
Good  heaven !  what  dire  effects  from  civil  discord  flow: 
Now  let  me  graft  my  pears,  and  prune  the  vine ; 
The  fruit  is  theirs,  the  labor  only  mine. 
Farewell,  my  pastures,  my  paternal  stock, 
My  fruitful  fields,  and  my  more  fruitful  flock ! 
No  more,  my  goats,  shall  I  behold  you  climb 
The  steepy  cliffs,  or  crop  the  flow'ry  thyme ! 
No  more,  extended  in  the  grot  below, 
Shall  see  you  browsing  on  the  mountain's  brow 
The  prickly  shrubs ;  and  after  on  the  bare, 
Leap  down  the  deep  abyss,  and  hang  in  air. 
No  more  my  sheep  shall  sip  the  morning  dew ; 
No  more  my  song  shall  please  the  rural  crew : 
Adieu,  my  tuneful  pipe  !  and  all  the  world,  adieu  ! 

Tit.  This  night,  at  least,  with  me  forget  your  care, 
Chestnuts  and  curds  and  cream  shall  be  your  fare : 
The  carpet-ground  shall  be  with  leaves  o'erspread ; 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  117 

And  boughs  shall  weave  a  cov'ring  for  your  head, 
For  see,  yon  sunny  hill  the  shade  extends, 
And  curling  smoke  from  cottages  ascends. 


THE  Fourth  Eclogue,  addressed  to  Virgil's  friend,  the  consul 
Pollio,  probably  on  the  birth  of  his  son,  is  a  remarkable  prophecy  of 
a  speedy  return  of  the  Golden  Age.  The  Muse  is  called  Sicilian 
because  Theocritus,  the  Greek  pastoral  poet,  was  a  native  of  Sicily. 

Sicilian  Muse,  begin  a  loftier  strain  ! 

Though  lowly  shrubs  and  trees,  that  shade  the  plain, 

Delight  not  all  ;  Sicilian  Muse,  prepare 

To  make  the  vocal  woods  deserve  a  consul's  care. 

The  last  great  age,  foretold  by  sacred  rhymes, 

Renews  its  finish'  d  course  :  Saturnian  times 

Roll  round  again  ;  and  mighty  years  begun 

From  their  first  orb,  in  radiant  circles  run. 

The  base  degenerate  iron  offspring  ends, 

A  golden  progeny  from  heaven  descends. 

O  chaste  L,ucina  !  speed  the  mother's  pains, 

And  haste  the  glorious  birth  !  thine  own  Apollo  reigns  ! 

The  lovely  boy,  with  his  auspicious  face, 

Shall  Pollio'  s  consulship  and  triumph  grace: 

Majestic  months  set  out  with  him  to  their  appointed  race. 

The  father  banished  virtue  shall  restore  ; 

And  crimes  shall  threat  the  guilty  world  no  more. 

The  son  shall  lead  the  life  of  gods,  and  be 

By  gods  and  heroes  seen,  and  gods  and  heroes  see. 

The  jarring  nations  he  in  peace  shall  bind, 

And  with  paternal  virtues  rule  mankind. 

Unbidden,  earth  shall  wreathing  ivy  bring, 

And  fragrant  herbs,  the  promises  of  spring, 

As  her  first  offerings  to  her  infant  king. 

The  goats,  with  strutting  dugs,  shall  homeward  speed, 

And  lowing  herds,  secure  from  lions,  feed. 

His  cradle  shall  with  rising  flowers  be  crown'  d  ; 

The  serpent's  brood  shall  die  ;  the  sacred  ground 

Shall  weeds  and  poisonous  plants  refuse  to  beai  ; 

Each  common  bush  shall  Syrian  roses  wear. 

But  when  heroic  verse  his  youth  shall  raise, 

And  form  it  to  hereditary  praise, 


u8  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Unlabored  harvests  shall  the  fields  adorn, 

And  clustered  grapes  shall  blush  on  every  thorn ; 

The  knotted  oaks  shall  showers  of  honey  weep, 

And  through  the  matted  grass  the  liquid  gold  shall  creep. 

Yet,  of  old  fraud  some  vestige  shall  remain  : 

The  merchant  still  shall  plough  the  deep  for  gain ; 

Great  cities  shall  with  walls  be  compassed  round, 

And  sharpened  shares  shall  vex  the  fruitful  ground ; 

Another  Tiphys  shall  new  seas  explore, 

Another  Argo  land  her  chiefs  upon  th'  Iberian  shore ; 

Another  Helen  other  wars  create, 

And  great  Achilles  urge  the  Trojan  fate. 

And  when  to  ripen' d  manhood  he  shall  grow, 

The  greedy  sailor  shall  the  seas  forego : 

No  keel  shall  cut  the  waves  for  foreign  ware, 

For  every  soil  shall  every  product  bear. 

The  laboring  hind  his  oxen  shall  disjoin  : 

No  plough  shall  hurt  the  glebe,  no  pruning-hook  the  vine ; 

Nor  wool  shall  in  dissembled  colors  shine ; 

But  the  luxurious  father  of  the  fold, 

With  native  purple  and  unborrowed  gold, 

Beneath  his  pompous  fleece  shall  proudly  sweat ; 

And  under  Tyrian  robes  the  lamb  shall  bleat. 

The  Fates,  when  they  this  happy  web  have  spun, 

Shall  bless  the  sacred  clue  and  bid  it  smoothly  run. 

Mature  in  years,  to  ready  honors  move, 

Son  of  celestial  seed !  O  foster  son  of  Jove ! 

See,  laboring  Nature  calls  thee  to  sustain 

The  nodding  frame  of  heaven,  and  earth  and  main  ! 

See,  to  their  base  restored,  earth,  seas,  and  air ; 

And  joyful  ages,  from  behind,  in  crowding  ranks  appear. 

To  sing  thy  praise,  would  heaven  my  breath  prolong, 

Infusing  spirits  worthy  such  a  song, 

Not  Thracian  Orpheus  should  transcend  my  lays, 

Nor  Linus,  crowned  with  never-fading  bays  ; 

Though  each  his  heavenly  parent  should  inspire, 

The  Muse  instruct  the  voice,  and  Phoebus  tune  the  lyre. 

Should  Pan  contend  in  verse,  and  thou  my  theme, 

Arcadian  judges  should  their  god  condemn. 

Begin,  auspicious  boy  !   to  cast  about 

Thy  infant  eye,  and,  with  a  smile,  thy  mother  single  out. 

Thy  mother  well  deserves  that  short  delight, 


I^ATIN  LITERATURE.  119 

The  nauseous  qualms  of  ten  long  months  and  travail  to  requite. 

Then  smile  !  the  frowning  infant's  doom  is  read : 

No  god  shall  crown  the  board,  nor  goddess  bless  the  bed. 

ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE. 

THE  well-known  myth  of  Orpheus  and  his  descent  into  Hades  to 
recover  his  lost  Eurydice  is  related  incidentally  in  the  Fourth  Book  of 
the  Georgics. 

Sad  Orpheus,  doom'd,  without  a  crime,  to  mourn 
His  ravish 'd  bride  that  never  shall  return ; 
Wild  for  her  loss,  calls  down  th'  inflicted  woes, 
And  deadlier  threatens,  if  no  fate  oppose. 
When  urged  by  thee  along  the  marshy  bed, 
Th'  unhappy  nymph  in  frantic  terror  fled ; 
She  saw  not,  doom'd  to  die,  across  her  way, 
Where,  couch' d  beneath  the  grass,  the  serpent  lay. 
But  every  Dryad,  their  companion  dead, 
O'er  the  high  rocks  their  echo'd  clamor  spread, 
The  Rhodopeian  mounts  with  sorrow  rung, 
Deep  wailings  burst  Pangaea's  cliffs  among 
Sad  Orithyia,  and  the  Getse  wept, 
And  loud  lament  down  plaintive  Hebrus  swept. 
He,  lonely,  on  his  harp,  'mid  wilds  unknown, 
Sooth' d  his  sad  love  with  melancholy  tone: 
On  thee,  sweet  bride  !  still  dwelt  th'  undying  lay, 
Thee  first  at  dawn  deplor'd,  thee  last  at  close  of  day. 
For  thee  he  dar'd  to  pass  the  jaws  of  hell, 
And  gates  where  death  and  darkness  ever  dwell, 
Trod  with  firm  foot  in  horror's  gloomy  grove, 
Approach 'd  the  throne  of  subterraneous  Jove, 
Nor  fear'd  the  Manes*  and  stern  host  below, 
And  hearts  that  never  felt  for  human  woe. 
Drawn  by  his  song  from  Erebus  profound 
Shades  and  unbodied  phantoms  flock  around, 
Countless  as  birds  that  fill  the  leafy  bow'r 
Beneath  pale  eve,  or  winter's  driving  show'r. 
Matrons  and  sires,  and  unafHanc'd  maids, 
Forms  of  bold  warriors  and  heroic  shades, 
Youths  and  pale  infants  laid  upon  the  pyre, 
While  their  fond  parents  saw  th'  ascending  fire : 

*  The  Manes  were  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 


120  LITERATURE  OF  AL.L,  NATIONS. 

All  whom  the  squalid  reeds  and  sable  mud 
Of  slow  Cocytus'  unrejoicing  flood, 
All  whom  the  Stygian  lake's  dark  confine  bounds, 
And  with  nine  circles,  maze  in  maze,  surrounds. 
On  him  astonish' d  Death  and  Tartarus  gazed, 
Their  viper  hair  the  wond'ring  Furies  raised : 
Grim  Cerberus  stood,  his  triple  jaws  half  closed, 
And  fixed  in  air  Ixion's  wheel  reposed. 

Now  ev'ry  peril  o'er,  when  Orpheus  led 
His  rescu'd  prize  in  triumph  from  the  dead, 
And  the  fair  bride  (so  Proserpine  enjoin'd) 
Press' d  on  his  path,  and  followed  close  behind, 
In  sweet  oblivious  trance  of  amorous  thought, 
The  lover  err'd,  to  sudden  frenzy  wrought : 
Ah  !  venial  fault !  if  hell  had  ever  known 
Mercy,  or  sense  of  suffering  not  its  own. 
He  stopp'd,  and,  ah !  forgetful,  weak  of  mind, 
Cast,  as  she  reached  the  light,  one  look  behind. 
There  die  his  hopes,  by  love  alone  betray 'd, 
He  broke  the  law  that  hell's  stern  tyrant  made ; 
Thrice  o'er  the  Stygian  lake  a  hollow  sound 
Portentous  murmur' d  from  its  depth  profound. 
"Alas !  what  fates  our  hapless  love  divide, 
What  frenzy,  Orpheus,  tears  thee  from  thy  bride? 
Again  I  sink !    A  voice  resistless  calls. 
Lo  1  on  my  swimming  eye  cold  slumber  falls. 
Now,  now  farewell !  involv'd  in  thickest  night, 
Borne  far  away,  I  vanish  from  thy  sight, 
And  stretch  towards  thee,  all  hope  forever  o'er, 
These  unavailing  arms,  ah  !  thine  no  more." 
She  spoke,  and  from  his  gaze  forever  fled, 
Swift  as  dissolving  smoke  through  aether  spread, 
Nor  more  beheld  him,  while  he  fondly  strove 
To  catch  her  shade,  and  pour  the  plaints  of  love. 
Deaf  to  his  pray'r  no  more  stern  Charon  gave 
To  cross  the  Stygian  lake's  forbidden  wave. 

Ah  !  many  a  month  he  wept  in  lofty  caves 
By  frozen  Strymon's  solitary  waves; 
With  melting  melodies  the  beasts  subdu'd, 
And  drew  around  his  harp  the  list'ning  wood. 
Thus  Philomel,*  beneath  the  poplar  spray, 
*  The  nightingale. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  121 

Mourns  her  lost  brood  untimely  snatch' d  away, 

Whom  some  rough  hind,  that  watch' d  her  fost'ring  nest, 

Tore  yet  unfledg'd  from  the  maternal  breast : 

She  on  the  bough  all  night  her  plaint  pursues, 

Fills  the  far  woods  with  woe,  and  each  sad  note  renews. 

No  earthly  charms  had  power  his  soul  to  move, 

No  second  hymeneal  lured  to  love. 

'Mid  climes  where  Tanais  freezes  as  it  flows, 

'Mid  deserts  hoary  with  Rhipaean  snows, 

I/)ne  roam'd  the  bard,  his  ravish' d  bride  deplored, 

And  the  vain  gift  of  hell's  relenting  lord. 

Scorned  by  the  youth,  whom  grief  alone  could  charm, 
Rage  and  revenge  the  Thracian  matrons  arm  ; 
'Mid  the  dark  orgies  of  their  god,  they  tore 
His  mangled  limbs,  and  toss'd  along  the  shore. 
Ah  !  at  that  time  while  roll'd  the  floating  head, 
Torn  from  his  neck,  down  Hebrus'  craggy  bed, 
His  last,  last  voice,  his  tongue  now  cold  in  death, 
Still  nam'd  Eurydice  with  parting  breath; 
"  Ah !  dear  Eurydice !  "  his  spirit  sigh'd, 
And  all  the  rocks  "  Eurydice  "  replied. 

LAOCOON  AND  His  SONS. 

^BNEAS  tells  the  story  of  Laocoon,  who  alone  of  the  Trojan  leaders 
resisted  the  bringing  of  the  wooden  horse  within  the  walls  of  the 
doomed  city.  By  striking  it  with  his  spear  he  was  said  to  have  offended 
the  deities  to  whom  it  was  consecrated.  He  was  therefore  punished  by 
being  crushed,  with  his  sons,  in  the  folds  of  two  enormous  serpents. 

lyaocoon,  named  as  Neptune's  priest, 
Was  offering  up  the  victim  beast, 
When  lo  !  from  Tenedos — I  quail, 
E'en  now,  at  telling  of  the  tale — 
Two  monstrous  serpents  stem  the  tide, 
And  shoreward  through  the  stillness  glide. 
Amid  the  waves  they  rear  their  breasts, 
And  toss  on  high  their  sanguine  crests ; 
The  hind  part  coils  along  the  deep, 
And  undulates  with  sinuous  sweep. 
The  lashed  spray  echoes  :  now  they  reach 
The  inland  belted  by  the  beach, 
And  rolling  bloodshot  eyes  of  fire, 


122  UTERATURB  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

Dart  their  forked  tongue,  and  hiss  for  ire. 

We  fly  distraught ;  unswerving  they 

Toward  Laocoon  hold  their  way ; 

First  round  his  two  young  sons  they  wreathe, 

And  grind  their  limbs  with  savage  teeth : 

Then,  as  with  arms  he  comes  to  aid, 

The  wretched  father  they  invade 

And  twine  in  giant  folds ;  twice  round 

His  stalwart  waist  their  spires  are  wound, 

Twice  round  his  neck,  while  over  all 

Their  heads  and  crests  tower  high  and  tall. 

He  strains  his  strength  their  knots  to  tear, 

While  gore  and  slime  his  fillets  smear, 

And  to  the  unregardful  skies 

Sends  up  his  agonizing  cries : 

A  wounded  bull  such  moaning  makes, 

When  from  his  neck  the  axe  he  shakes, 

Ill-aimed,  and  from  the  altar  breaks. 

The  twin  destroyers  take  their  flight 

To  Pallas'  temple  on  the  height ; 

There  by  the  goddess'  feet  concealed 

They  lie  and  nestle  'neath  her  shield. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  123 


THE  DEATH  OF  PRIAM. 

PERHAPS  you  may  of  Priam's  fate  inquire? 
He — when  he  saw  his  regal  town  on  fire, 
His  ruined  palace,  and  his  ent'ring  foes, 
On  every  side  inevitable  woes — 
In  arms  disused  invests  his  limbs,  decayed, 
Ivike  them,  with  age ;  a  late  and  useless  aid. 
His  feeble  shoulders  scarce  the  weight  sustain : 
I^oaded,  not  armed,  he  creeps  along  with  pain, 
Despairing  of  success,  ambitious  to  be  slain. 
Uncovered  but  by  heaven,  there  stood  in  view 
An  altar :  near  the  hearth  a  laurel  grew, 
Doddered  with  age,  whose  boughs  encompass  round 
The  household  gods,  and  shade  the  holy  ground. 
Here  Hecuba,  with  all  her  helpless  train 
Of  dames,  for  shelter  sought,  but  sought  in  vain, 
Driv'n  like  a  flock  of  doves  along  the  sky, 
Their  images  they  hug,  and  to  their  altars  fly. 
The  queen  when  she  beheld  her  trembling  lord, 
And  hanging  by  his  side  a  heavy  sword, 
"  What  rage,"  she  cried,  "has  seized  my  husband's  mind? 
What  arms  are  these,  and  to  what  use  design'd? 
These  times  want  other  aid !     Were  Hector  here, 
B'en  Hector  now  in  vain,  like  Priam,  would  appear. 
With  us  one  common  shelter  thou  shalt  find, 
Or  in  one  common  fate  with  us  be  joined." 
She  said,  and  with  a  last  salute  embraced 
The  poor  old  man,  and  by  the  laurel  placed. 

Behold  !  Polites,  one  of  Priam's  sons, 
Pursued  by  Pyrrhus,*  there  for  safety  runs. 
Through  swords  and  foes,  amaz'd  and  hurt,  he  flies 
Through  empty  courts  and  open  galleries. 
Him  Pyrrhus,  urging  with  his  lance,  pursues, 
And  often  reaches,  and  his  thrusts  renews. 
The  youth  transfix' d,  with  lamentable  cries, 
Expires  before  his  wretched  parents'  eyes : 
Whom  gasping  at  his  feet  when  Priam  saw, 
The  fear  of  death  gave  place  to  nature's  law ; 

*  Pyrrhus,  called  also  Neoptolemus,  was  the  sou  of  Achilles. 


104  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

And,  shaking  more  with  anger  than  with  age, 
"The  gods,"  said  he,  "requite  thy  brutal  rage! 
As  sure  they  will,  barbarian,  sure  they  must, 
If  there  be  gods  in  heaven,  and  gods  be  just — 
Who  tak'st  in  wrongs  an  insolent  delight; 
With  a  son's  death  t'  infect  a  father's  sight. 
Not  he,  whom  thou  and  lying  fame  conspire 
To  call  thee  his — not  he,  thy  vaunted  sire, 
Thus  us'd  my  wretched  age :  the  gods  he  feared, 
The  laws  of  nature  and  of  nations  heard. 
He  cheer 'd  my  sorrows,  and,  for  sums  of  gold, 
The  bloodless  carcass  of  my  Hector  sold ; 
Pitied  the  woes  a  parent  underwent, 
And  sent  me  back  in  safety  from  his  tent."  * 


This  said,  his  feeble  hand  a  javelin  threw/ 
Which  fluttering,  seemed  to  loiter  as  it  flew; 
Just,  and  but  barely,  to  the  mark  it  held, 
And  faintly  tinkled  on  the  brazen  shield. 

Then  Pyrrhus  thus :  ' '  Hence,  dotard !  meet  thy  fate, 
And  to  my  father  my  foul  deeds  relate. 
Now  die ! " — With  that  he  dragg'd  the  trembling  sire, 
Slidd'ring  through  clottered  blood  and  holy  mire 
(The  mingled  mire  his  murder' d  son  had  made), 
Haled  from  beneath  the  violated  shade, 
And  on  the  sacred  pile  the  royal  victim  laid, 
His  right  hand  held  his  bloody  falchion  bare ; 

*  See  Volume  I.,  pp.  166-169. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  1*5 

His  left  he  twisted  in  his  hoary  hair : 

Then,  with  a  speeding  thrust,  his  heart  he  found : 

The  lukewarm  blood  came  rushing  through  the  wound, 

And  sanguine  streams  distained  the  sacred  ground. 

Thus  Priam  fell,  and  shar'd  one  common  fate 

With  Troy  in  ashes,  and  his  ruin'd  state — 

He,  who  the  sceptre  of  all  Asia  sway'd, 

Whom  monarchs  like  domestic  slaves  obey'd. 

On  the  bleak  shores  now  lies  th'  abandoned  king, 

A  headless  carcass,  and  a  nameless  thing. 

DIDO  ON  THE  FUNERAL  PILE. 

THE  following  translation  is  from  William  Morris'  "^Bneids  of 
Virgil." 

And  now  Aurora  left  alone  Tithonus'  saffron  bed, 
And  first  light  of  another  day  across  the  world  she  shed. 
But  when  the  Queen  from  tower  aloft  beheld  the  dawn  grow  white, 
And  saw  the  ships  upon  their  way  with  fair  sails  trimmed  aright, 
And  all  the  haven  shipless  left,  and  reach  of  empty  strand, 
Then  thrice  and  o'er  again  she  smote  her  fair  breast  with  her  hand, 
And  rent  her  yellow  hair  and  cried,  ' '  Ah,  Jove  !  and  is  he  gone  ? 
And  shall  a  very  stranger  mock  the  lordship  I  have  won  ? 
Why  arm  they  not  ?    Why  gather  not  from  all  the  town  in  chase  ? 
Ho  ye !  why  run  ye  not  the  ships  down  from  their  standing  place? 
Quick,  bring  the  fire !  shake  out  the  sails !  hard  on  the  oars  to  sea ! 
What  words  are  these,  or  where  am  I  ?    What  madness  changeth 

me? 

Unhappy  Dido  !  now  at  last  thine  evil  deed  strikes  home. 
Ah,  better  when  thou  mad'st  him  lord — lo,  whereunto  are  come — 
His  faith  and  troth,  who  erst,  they  say,  his  country's  house-gods 

held 

The  while  he  took  upon  his  back  his  father  spent  with  eld  ! 
Why  might  I  not  have  shred  him  up,  and  scattered  him  piecemeal 
About  the  sea,  and  slain  his  friends,  his  very  son,  with  steel, 
Ascanius  on  his  father's  board  for  dainty  meat  to  lay? 
But  doubtful,  say  ye,  were  the  fate  of  battle.     Yea,  O  yea  ! 
What  might  I  fear,  who  was  to  die  ? — if  I  had  borne  the  fire 
Among  their  camp,  and  filled  his  decks  with  flame,  and  son  and 

sire 

Quenched  with  their  whole  folk,  and  myself  had  cast  upon  it  all  I 
— O  Sun,  whose  flames  on  every  deed  earth  doeth  ever  fall, 


126  LITERATURE;  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

O  Juno,  setter-forth  and  seer  of  these  our  many  woes, 
Hecate,  whose  name  howled  out  a-nights  o'er  city  crossway  goes, 
Avenging  Dread  Ones,  Gods  that  guard  Elissa*  perishing, 
O  hearken,  turn  your  might  most  meet  against  the  evil  thing  ! 

0  hearken  these  our  prayers  !  and  if  the  doom  must  surely  stand, 
And  he,  the  wicked  head,  must  gain  the  port  and  swim  a-land, 
If  Jove  demand  such  fixed  fate  and  every  change  doth  bar, 

Yet  let  him  faint  mid  weapon-strife  and  hardy  folk  of  war ! 
And  let  him,  exiled  from  his  house,  torn  from  lulus, f  wend, 
Beseeching  help  mid  wretched  death  of  many  and  many  a  friend. 
And  when  at  last  he  yieldeth  him  to  pact  of  grinding  peace, 
Then  short-lived  let  his  lordship  be,  and  loved  life's  increase. 
And  let  him  fall  before  his  day,  unburied  on  the  shore : 
IvO,  this  I  pray,  this  last  of  words  forth  with  my  blood  I  pour. 
And  ye,  O  Tyrians,  'gainst  his  race  that  is,  and  is  to  be, 
Feed  full  your  hate !   When  I  am  dead,  send  down  this  gift  to  me  : 
No  love  betwixt  the  peoples  twain,  no  troth  for  anything ! 
And  thou,  Avenger  of  my  wrongs,  from  my  dead  bones  outspring, 
To  bear  the  fire  and  the  sword  o'er  Dardan-peopled  earth 
Now  or  hereafter — whensoe'er  the  day  brings  might  to  birth. 

1  pray  the  shore  against  the  shore,  the  sea  against  the  sea, 

The  sword  'gainst  sword — fight  ye  that  are,  and  ye  that  are  to  be ! " 

So  sayeth  she,  and  everywise  she  turns  about  her  mind 
How  ending  of  the  loathed  light  she  speediest  now  ma3r  find. 
And  few  words  unto  Barce  spake,  Sychaeus'  nurse  of  yore  ;t 
For  the  black  ashes  held  her  own  upon  the  ancient  shore : 
"  Dear  nurse,  my  sister  Anna  now  bring  hither  to  my  need, 
And  bid  her  for  my  sprinkling-tide  the  running  water  speed  ; 
And  bid  her  have  the  hosts§  with  her,  and  due  atoning  things ; 
So  let  her  come ;  but  thou,  thine  head  bind  with  the  holy  strings ; 
For  I  am  minded  now  to  end  what  I  have  set  afoot, 
And  worship  duly  Stygian  Jove  and  all  my  cares  uproot ; 
Setting  the  flame  beneath  the  bale||  of  that  Dardanian  head." 

She  spake ;  with  hurrying  of  eld  the  nurse  her  footsteps  sped. 
But  Dido,  trembling,  wild  at  heart  with  her  most  dread  intent, 
Rolling  her  blood-shot  eyes  about,  her  quivering  cheeks  besprent 

*  Another  name  of  Dido. 

t  lulus,  called  also  Ascanius,  was  the  son  of  JEneas,  from  whom 
the  Julian  family  of  Rome  claimed  descent. 

J  Sychaeus  was  Dido's  first  husband,  and  Barce,  who  had  been  his 
nurse,  remained  in  Dido's  household. 

|  Victims  for  sacrifice.  Jl  Funeral  pile. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  127 

Witli  burning   flecks,    and  otherwhere   dead-white  with   death 

drawn  nigh, 
Burst  through  the  inner  doorways  there  and  clomb  the  bale  on 

high, 

Fulfilled  with  utter  madness  now,  and  bared  the  Dardan  blade, 
Gift  given  not  for  such  a  work,  for  no  such  ending  made. 
There  when  upon  the  Ilian  gear  her  eyen  had  been  set, 
And  bed  well  known,   'twixt  tears  and  thoughts  a  while  she 

lingered  yet ; 
Then  brooding  low  upon  the  bed  her  latest  word  she  spake  : 

' '  O  raiment  dear  to  me  while  Gods  and  fate  allowed,  now  take 
This  soul  of  mine  and  let  me  loose  from  all  my  woes  at  last ! 
I,  I  have  lived,  and  down  the  way  fate  showed  to  me  have  passed  ; 


And  now  a  mighty  shade  of  me  shall  go  beneath  the  earth ! 
A  glorious  city  have  I  raised,  and  brought  my  walls  to  birth, 
Avenged  my  husband,  made  my  foe,  my  brother,  pay  the  pain : 
Happy,  ah,  happy  overmuch  were  all  my  life-days'  gain, 
If  never  those  Dardanian  keels  had  drawn  our  shores  anigh. ' ' 

She  spake — her  lips  lay  on  the  bed :  ' '  Ah,  unavenged  to  die ! 
But  let  me  die !    Thus,  thus  'tis  good  to  go  into  the  night ! 
Now  let  the  cruel  Dardan  eyes  drink  in  the  bale-fire's  light. 
And  bear  for  sign  across  the  sea  this  token  of  my  death. ' ' 

Her  speech  had  end ;  but  on  the  steel,  amid  the  last  word's 

breath, 

They  see  her  fallen ;  along  the  blade  they  see  her  blood  foam  out, 
And   all  her  hands  besprent  therewith;    wild  fly  the  shrieks 

about 
The  lofty  halls,  and  Rumor  runs  mad  through  the  smitten  town. 


128  UTERATURS  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

The  houses  sound  with  women's  wails  and  lamentable  groan ; 
The  mighty  clamor  of  their  grief  rings  through  the  upper  skies, 
'Twas  e'en  as  if  all  Carthage  fell  mid  flood  of  enemies, 
Or  mighty  Tyre  of  ancient  days, — as  if  the  wildfire  ran 
Rolling  about  the  roof  of  God  and  dwelling-place  of  man. 

Half  dead  her  sister  heard,  and  rushed  distraught  and  trem- 
bling there, 

With  nail  and  fist  befouling  all  her  face  and  bosom  fair : 
She  thrust  amidst  them,  and  by  name  called  on  the  dying  Queen : 
"O  was  it  this,  my  sister,  then  !  guile  in  thy  word  hath  been ! 
And  this  was  what  the  bale,  the  fire,  the  altars  wrought  for  me ! 
Where  shall  I  turn,  so  left  alone  ?    Ah,  scorned  was  I  to  be 
For  death-fellow!     Thou  shouldst  have  called  me  too  thy  way  to 

wend. 
One  sword-pang  should  have  been  for  both,  one  hour  to  make  an 

end. 

Built  I  with  hands,  on  Father-Gods  with  crying  did  I  cry, 
To  be  away,  a  cruel  heart,  from  thee  laid  down  to  die  ? 
O  sister,  me  and  thee,  thy  folk,  the  fathers  of  the  land, 

Thy  city  hast  thou  slain O  give,  give  water  to  my  hand, 

And  let  me  wash  the  wound,  and  if  some  last  breath  linger  there, 
Let  my  mouth  catch  it !  " 

Saying  so  she  reached  the  topmost  stair, 
And  to  her  breast  the  dying  one  she  fondled,  groaning  sore, 
And  with  her  raiment  strove  to  staunch  the  black  and  flowing  gore. 
Then  Dido  strove  her  heavy  lids  to  lift,  but  back  again 
They  sank,  and  deep  within  her  breast  whispered  the  deadly  bane : 
Three  times  on  elbow  struggling  up  a  little  did  she  rise, 
And  thrice  fell  back  upon  the  bed,  and  sought  with  wandering 

eyes 
The  light  of  heaven  aloft,  and  moaned  when  it  was  found  at  last. 

Then  on  her  long-drawn  agony  did  Juno  pity  cast, 
Her  hard  departing ;  Iris  then  she  sent  from  heaven  on  high, 
And  bade  her  from  the  knitted  limbs  the  struggling  soul  untie. 
For  since  by  fate  she  perished  not,  nor  waited  death-doom-given, 
But  hapless  died  before  her  day,  by  sudden  fury  driven, 
Not  yet  the  tress  of  yellow  hair  had  Proserpine  off-shred, 
Nor  unto  Stygian  Orcus  yet  had  doomed  her  wandering  head. 
So  Iris  ran  adown  the  sky  on  wings  of  saffron  dew, 
And  colors  shifting  thousand-fold  against  the  sun  she  drew, 
And  overhead  she  hung :  "  So  bid,  from  off  thee  this  I  bear, 
Hallowed  to  Dis,  and  charge  thee  now  from  out  thy  body  fare." 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  I2Q 

She  spake  and  sheared  the  tress  away;  then  failed  the  life-heat 

spent, 
And  forth  away  upon  the  wind  the  spirit  of  her  went. 

THE  YOUNG  MARCELLUS. 

VIRGIL,  in  the  Sixth  Book,  represents  yEneas  descending  into  the 
under  world,  and  there  meeting  his  father,  who  prophesies  the  great- 
ness of  Rome  and  shows  him  the  spirits  of  her  future  heroes.  Among 
the  rest  pointed  out  was  the  young  Marcellus,  the  nephew  of  Augustus, 
who  died  in  his  twentieth  year.  The  following  lines  were  read  by 
Virgil  to  the  Emperor,  in  the  presence  of  Octavia,  the  mother  of 
Marcellus,  soon  after  her  loss.  She  fainted  at  the  recital,  but  after- 
wards ordered  the  poet  to  be  paid  a  magnificent  sum  of  money  for  his 
tribute  to  her  son's  memory. 


here  beheld,  of  form  divine, 
A  godlike  youth  in  glittering  armor  shine, 
With  great  Marcellus  keeping  equal  pace  ; 
But  gloomy  were  his  eyes,  dejected  was  his  face. 
He  saw,  and  wond'ring,  asked  his  airy  guide, 
"What  and  from  whence  was  he,  who  press'd  the  hero's  side, 
His  son,  or  one  of  his  illustrious  name  ? 
How  like  the  former,  and  almost  the  same  ! 
Observe  the  crowds  that  compass  him  around  ; 
All  gaze,  and  all  admire,  and  raise  a  shouting  sound  ; 
But  hov'ring  mists  around  his  brows  are  spread, 
And  night,  with  sable  shades,  involve  his  head." 
'  '  Seek  not  to  know,  '  '  the  ghost  replied  with  tears, 
'  '  The  sorrows  of  thy  sons  in  future  years. 
This  youth  (the  blissful  vision  of  a  day) 
Shall  just  be  shown  on  earth,  then  snatched  away. 
The  gods  too  high  had  raised  the  Roman  state, 
Were  but  their  gifts  as  permanent  as  great. 
What  groans  of  men  shall  fill  the  Martian  field  !  * 
How  fierce  a  blaze  his  flaming  pile  shall  yield  I 
What  funeral  pomp  shall  floating  Tiber  see, 
When,  rising  from  his  bed,  he  views  the  sad  solemnity  ! 
No  youth  shall  equal  hopes  of  glory  give, 
No  youth  afford  so  great  a  cause  to  grieve. 
The  Trojan  honor,  and  the  Roman  boast, 
Admired  when  living,  and  adored  when  lost  1 

*  The  Campus  Martius  at  Rome. 
rv—  9 


130  LITERATURE  OF  AI,!,  NATIONS. 

Mirror  of  ancient  faith  in  early  youth  ! 

Undaunted  worth,  inviolable  truth  ! 

No  foe,  unpunish'd,  in  the  fighting- field 

Shall  dare  thee,  foot  to  foot,  with  sword  and  shield ; 

Much  less  in  arms  oppose  thy  matchless  force, 

When  thy  sharp  spurs  shall  urge  thy  foaming  horse. 

Ah  !  couldst  thou  break  through  Fate's  severe  decree, 

A  new  Marcellus  shall  arise  in  thee ! 

Full  canisters  of  fragrant  lilies  bring, 

Mix'd  with  the  purple  roses  of  the  spring ; 

Let  me  with  funeral  flowers  his  body  strow  j 

This  gift  which  parents  to  their  children  owe, 

This  unavailing  gift,  at  least,  I  may  bestow!" 


VIRGII,  READING  TO  AUGUSTUS  AND  OCTAVIA. 


THE  DESCENT  OF  AVERNUS. 

IN  one  of  the  most  famous  passages  of  the  ^neid  Virgil  contrasts 
in  a  few  lines  the  easy  descent  of  Avernus  with  the  difficulty  of  return. 
It  has  thus  been  translated  by  Prof.  J.  Conington. 

The  journey  down  to  the  abyss 

Is  prosperous  and  light ; 
The  palace-gates  of  gloomy  Dis  [Pluto] 

Stand  open  day  and  night ; 
But  upward  to  retrace  the  way 
And  pass  into  the  light  of  day, 
Then  comes  the  stress  of  labor ;  this 

May  task  a  hero's  might. 


HORACE. 

HORACE,  the  second  in  fame  of  the 
poets  of  the  Augustan  age,  was  the  son 
of  a  freedman  who  had  acquired  a 
modest  competence.  His  full  name 
was  Quihtus  Horatius  Flaccus.  He 

was  born  in  65  B.C.,  at  Venusia,  on  the  border  of  Apulia. 
His  father,  not  satisfied  with  the  educational  resources  of  the 
Venusian  school,  took  him  to  Rome  and  placed  him  with 
Orbilius,  whom  Horace  has  immortalized  for  his  propensity 
to  flog  the  boys.  From  Rome  he  proceeded  to  Athens  for 
further  study,  and,  after  the  assassination  of  Julius  Caesar, 
joined  the  army  of  Brutus  in  Macedonia.  He  was  present  at 
the  battle  of  Philippi,  where  he  sportively  says  he  threw  down 
his  shield  and  sought  safety  in  flight.  The  fortunes  of  war 
deprived  him  of  his  home,  and,  his  father  being  dead,  auda- 
cious poverty  drove  him  to  write  verses.  Through  Varius 
and  Virgil  he  was  introduced  to  Maecenas  at  the  age  of 
twenty -seven,  and  henceforth  his  position  as  a  court  poet  was 
assured.  Not  a  few  of  Horace's  best  traits  are  due  to  the 
influence  of  his  patron  Maecenas,  a  polished  man  of  the  world, 
possessed  of  much  tact  and  discretion.  The  compositions 
written  by  Horace  after  his  introduction  to  court  are  quite 
different  from  those  written  before.  Coarse  personality  gave 
place  to  urbanity  and  candor.  Henceforward  the  poet  places 
before  himself  higher  ideals  and  nobler  aims,  and  a  more 
genial  and  kindly  spirit  pervades  his  work.  The  Satires  are 
the  product  of  the  first  decade  of  Horace's  literary  career,  the 
Epistles  belong  to  the  second.  Together  they  may  be  consi- 
dered specimens  of  the  poet's  critical  capacity,  while  the  Odes 
exemplify  his  power  as  a  lyric  artist.  The  Satires  are  didac- 
tic, practical,  somewhat  prosaic,  and  deal  with  every-day  life 


132  LITERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

in  familiar  language.  They  teach  the  Stoic  doctrine  of  self- 
mastery  and  consistency  of  conduct.  They  condemn  the  in- 
ordinate love  of  pleasure  and  craving  for  luxuries.  The 
Epistles,  with  their  musical  ring  and  clear  presentation  ol 
ideas,  may  be  considered  an  innovation  in  poetic  forms.  The 
poet,  in  giving  an  honest  estimate  of  himself,  his  critics  and 
imitators,  establishes  a  confidential  relation  with  his  readers. 
The  longer  epistles  are  almost  purely  didactic,  the  shorter 
resemble  in  tone  the  lighter  odes. 

Scarcely  anything  in  literature  has  become  so  widely 
known  and  so  popular  among  men  of  literary  bent  as  the 
Odes  of  Horace.  It  is  from  them  that  he  derives  his  immor- 
tality. They  have  produced  a  great  variety  of  impressions 
among  his  admirers,  and  this  itself  is  a  token  of  the  poet's 
flexibility  of  mind  and  talent.  The  Odes  still  hold  a  high 
position  as  models  and  educational  elements  in  regard 
to  literary  taste  and  delicacy  of  language.  They  furnish 
specimens  of  the  epigrammatic,  the  grave  and  the  gay, 
the  purely  didactic  and  the  simple  Greek  imitation.  As  a 
lyric  poet  Horace  reaches  his  zenith  in  the  Third  Book.  Here 
he  stands  forth,  like  Virgil,  the  poet  of  Roman  national  and 
religious  sentiment.  In  the  First  Book  he  prays  to  Apollo 
for  a  life  free  from  everything  degrading,  and  yet  not  without 
gaiety ;  in  the  Second  he  predicts  his  survival  after  death  ;  in 
the  Third  he  throws  down  his  implements,  so  to  speak,  and 
exclaims  with  confidence,  "I  have  raised  a  monument  more 
lasting  than  bronze."  As  poet  laureate,  Horace  wrote  the 
ode  for  the  celebration  of  the  Secular  Games  in  17  B.C.  He 
died  8  B.C. 

To  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

THIS  is  one  of  the  earliest  odes,  and  Horace  never  surpassed  it  in 
patriotic  inspiration. 

Another  age  in  civil  wars  will  soon  be  spent  and  worn, 
And  by  her  native  strength  our  Rome  be  wrecked  and  over- 
borne,— 

That  Rome  the  Marsians  could  not  crush,  who  border  on  the  lands, 
Nor  the  shock  of  threatening  Porsena  with  his  Etruscan  bands, 
Nor  Capua's  strength  that  rivalled  ours,  nor  Spartacus  the  stern, 


I.ATIN  LITERATURE.  133 

Nor  the  faithless  Allobrogian,  who  still  for  change  doth  yearn. 
Aye,  what  Germania's  blue-eyed  youth  quelled  not  with  ruthless 

sword, 

Nor  Hannibal,  by  our  great  sires  detested  and  abhorred, 
We  shall  destroy  with  ruthless  hands  imbrued  in  brothers'  gore, 
And  wild  beasts  of  the  wood  shall  range  our  native  land  once 

more. 

A  foreign  foe,  alas  !  shall  tread  the  City's  ashes  down, 
And  his  horse's  ringing  hoofs  shall  smite  her  places  of  renown  ; 
And  the  bones  of  great  Quirinus,*  now  religiously  enshrined, 
Shall  be  flung  by  sacrilegious  hands  to  the  sunshine  and  the  wind. 
And  if  ye  all  from  ills  so  dire  ask  how  yourselves  to  free, 
Or  such  at  least  as  would  not  hold  your  lives  unworthily — 
No  better  counsel  I  can  urge  than  that  which  erst  inspired 
The  stout  Phocaeans  when  from  their  doomed  city  they  retired, 
Their  fields,  their  household  gods,  their  shrines  surrendering  as 

a  prey 

To  the  wild  boar  and  ravening  wolf:  so  we  in  our  dismay, 
Where'er  our  wandering  steps  may  chance  to  carry  us  should  go, 
Or  where'er  across  the  sea  the  fitful  winds  may  blow. 
How  think  ye  then  ?     If  better  course  none  offer,  why  should  we 
Not  seize  the  happy  auspices,  and  boldly  put  to  sea  ? 
The  circling  ocean  waits  us :  then  away,  where  Nature  smiles, 
To  those  fair  lands,  those  blissful  lands,  the  rich  and  happly  isles, 
Where  Ceres  year  by  year  crowns  all  the  untilled  land  with 

sheaves, 
And  the  vine  with  purple  clusters  droops,  unpruned  of  all  her 

leaves ; 

Where  the  olive  buds  and  burgeons,  to  its  promise  ne'er  untrue, 
And  the  russet  fig  adorns  the  trees  that  graff-shoot  never  knew ; 
Where  honey  from  the  hollow  oaks  doth  ooze,  and  crystal  rills 
Come  dancing  down  with  tinkling  feet  from  the  sky-dividing 

hills  ? 

There  to  the  pails  the  she-goats  come,  without  a  master's  word, 
And  home  with  udders  brimming  broad  returns  the  friendly  herd ; 
There  round  the  fold  no  surly  bear  its  midnight  prowl  doth  make, 
Nor  teems  the  rank  and  heaving  soil  with  the  adder  and  the  snake ; 
There  no  contagion  smites  the  flocks,  nor  blight  of  any  star, 
With  fury  of  remorseless  heat,  the  sweltering  herds  doth  mar. 

*  Quirinus  was  the  name  under  which  Romulus  was  deified  and 
worshiped. 


134  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Nor  are  the  swelling  seeds  burnt  up  within  the  thirsty  clods — 
So  kindly  blends  the  seasons  there  the  King  of  all  the  gods. 
That  shore  the  Argonautic  bark's  stout  rowers  never  gained, 
Nor  the  wily  She  of  Colchis  with  step  unchaste  profaned ; 
The  sails  of  Sidon's  galleys  ne'er  were  wafted  to  that  strand, 
Nor  ever  rested  on  its  slopes  Ulysses's  toil-worn  band : 
For  Jupiter,  when  he  with  brass  the  Golden  Age  alloyed, 
That  region  set  apart  by  the  good  to  be  enjoyed  ; 
With  brass  and  then  with  iron  he  the  ages  seared ;  but  ye, 
Good  men  and  true,  to  that  bright  home  arise,  arise  and  follow  me. 

MAECENAS,  PATRON  AND  FRIEND. 

LUCKY  I  will  not  call  myself,  as  though 
Thy  friendship  I  to  mere  good  fortune  owe. 
No  chance  it  was  secured  me  thy  regards, 
But  Virgil  first — that  best  of  men  and  bards,1 
And  then  kind  Varius  mentioned  what  I  was. 
Before  you  brought,  with  many  a  faltering  pause, 
Dropping  some  few  brief  words  (for  bashfulness 
Robbed  me  of  utterance)  I  did  not  profess 
That  I  was  sprung  of  lineage  old  and  great, 
Or  used  to  canter  round  my  own  estate 
On  a  Satureian  barb ;  but  what  and  who 
I  was,  as  plainly  told.     As  usual,  you 
Brief  answer  make  me.     I  retire,  and  then — 
Some  nine  months  after — summoning  me  again, 
You  bid  me  'mongst  your  friends  assume  a  place ; 
And  proud  I  feel  that  thus  I  won  your  grace  ; 
Not  by  an  ancestry  long  known  to  fame, 
But  by  my  life  and  heart,  devoid  of  blame. 

His  DAILY  LIFE  IN  ROME. 

I  WALK  alone,  by  mine  own  fancy  led, 
Inquire  the  price  of  pot-herbs  and  of  bread, 
The  circus  cross,  to  see  its  tricks  and  fun, 
The  forum  too,  at  times  near  set  of  sun ; 
With  other  fools  there  do  I  stand  and  gape 
Round  fortune-tellers'  stalls ;  thence  home  escape 
To  a  plain  meal  of  pancakes,  pulse,  and  peas ; 
Three  young  boy-slaves  attend  on  me  with  these. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  135 

Upon  a  slab  of  snow-white  marble  stand 
A  goblet  and  two  beakers ;  near  at  hand 
A  common  ewer,  patera,  and  bowl : 
Campania's  potteries  produced  the  whole. 
To  sleep  then  I.  ... 

I  keep  my  couch  till  ten,  then  walk  a  while, 
Or  having  read  or  writ  what  may  beguile 
A  quiet  after-hour,  anoint  my  limbs 
With  oil — not  such  as  filthy  Natta  skims 
From  lamps  defrauded  of  their  unctuous  fare. 
And  when  the  sunbeams,  grown  too  hot  to  bear, 
Warn  me  to  quit  the  field  and  hand-ball  play, 
The  bath  takes  all  my  weariness  away. 
Then  having  lightly  dined  just  to  appease 
The  sense  of  emptiness — I  take  mine  ease, 
Enjoying  all  home's  simple  luxury. 
This  is  the  life  of  bard  unclogged,  like  me, 
By  stern  ambition's  miserable  weight. 
So  placed,  I  own  with  gratitude,  my  state 
Is  sweeter,  aye,  than  though  a  quaestor's  power 
From  sire  and  grandsires  had  been  my  dower. 


INVITATION  TO  PHYLLIS. 

I  HAVE  laid  in  a  cask  of  Albanian  wine, 

Which  nine  mellow  summers  have  ripened  and  more. 
In  my  gardens,  dear  Phyllis,  thy  brows  to  entwine, 

Grows  the  brightest  of  yellow  parsley  in  plentiful  store ; 
There's  ivy  to  gleam  on  thy  dark  glossy  hair : 

My  plate,  newly  burnished,  enlivens  my  rooms, 
And  the  altar,  athirst  for  its  victim,  is  there, 

Enwreathed  with  chaste  vervain  and  choicest  of  blooms. 

Every  hand  in  the  household  is  busily  toiling, 

And  hither  and  thither  boys  bustle  and  girls ; 
Whilst,  up  from  the  hearth-fires  careering  and  coiling, 

The  smoke  round  the  rafter-beams  languidly  curls. 
I,et  the  joys  of  the  revel  be  parted  between  us ! 

'Tis  the  Ides  of  young  April,  the  day  which  divides 
The  month,  dearest  Phyllis,  of  ocean-sprung  Venus — 

A  day  to  me  dearer  than  any  besides. 


136  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

And  well  may  I  prize  it,  and  hail  its  returning — 

My  own  natal  day  not  more  hallowed  or  dear ; 
For  Maecenas,  my  friend,  dates  from  this  happy  morning 

The  life  which  has  swelled  to  a  lustrous  career. 
So  come,  my  own  Phyllis,  my  heart's  latest  treasure — 

For  ne'er  for  another  this  bosom  shall  long — 
And  I'll  teach,  while  your  loved  voice  re-echoes  the  measure, 

How  to  charm  away  care  with  the  magic  of  song. 

THE  LITERARY  BORE. 

IT  chanced  that  I,  the  other  day 
Was  sauntering  up  the  Sacred  Way, 
And  musing,  as  my  habit  is, 
Some  trivial  random  fantasies, 
When  there  comes  rushing  up  a  wight 
Whom  only  by  his  name  I  knew. 
"  Ha  !  my  dear  fellow,  how  d'ye  do?  " 
Grasping  my  hand,  he  shouted.     "  Why, 
As  times  go,  pretty  well, ' '  said  I ; 
"And  you,  I  trust,  can  say  the  same." 
But  after  me  as  still  he  came, 
"Sir,  is  there  anything,"  I  cried, 
4 '  You  want  of  me  ?  "     "  Oh, "  he  replied, 
"  I'm  just  the  man  you  ought  to  know : 
A  scholar,  author !  "     "  Is  it  so  ? 
For  this  I'll  like  you  all  the  more !  " 

Then,  writhing  to  escape  the  bore, 
I  quicken  now  my  pace,  now  stop, 
And  in  my  servant's  ear  let  drop 
Some  words ;  and  all  the  while  I  feel 
Bathed  in  cold  sweat  from  head  to  heel. 
"  Oh,  for  a  touch,"  I  moaned  in  pain, 
"  Bolanus,  of  thy  madcap  vein, 
To  put  this  incubus  to  rout !  " 
As  he  went  chattering  on  about 
Whatever  he  descries  or  meets — 
The  city's  growth,  its  splendor,  size. 
"  You're  dying  to  be  off,"  he  cries : 
(For  all  the  while  I'd  been  stock  dumb) ; 
"I've  seen  it  this  half-hour.     But  come, 
Let's  clearly  understand  each  other ; 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  137 

It's  no  use  making  all  this  pother. 

My  mind's  made  up  to  stick  by  you ; 

So  where  you  go,  there  I  go  too. ' ' 

"  Don't  put  yourself,"  I  answered,  "pray, 

So  very  far  out  of  your  way. 

I'm  on  the  road  to  see  a  friend 

Whom  you  don't  know,  that's  near  his  end, 

Away  beyond  the  Tiber  far, 

Close  by  where  Caesar's  gardens  are." 

"  I've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 

And  what's  a  paltry  mile  or  two  ? 

I  like  it ;  so  I'll  follow  you ! " 

Down  dropped  my  ears  on  hearing  this 
Just  like  a  vicious  jackass's, 
That's  loaded  heavier  than  he  likes ; 
But  off  anew  my  torment  strikes : 

"  If  well  I  know  myself,  you'll  end 
With  making  of  me  more  a  friend 
Than  Viscus,  aye,  or  Varius ;  for 
Of  verses  who  can  run  off  more, 
Or  run  them  off  at  such  a  pace  ? 
Who  dance  with  such  distinguished  grace  ? 
And  as  for  singing,  zounds  ! ' '  says  he, 
"  Hermogenes  might  envy  me !  " 

Here  was  an  opening  to  break  in : 
"  Have  you  a  mother,  father,  kin, 
To  whom  your  life  is  precious  ?  "     "  None ; 
I've  closed  the  eyes  of  every  one." 
O  happy  they,  I  inly  groan ; 
Now  I  am  left,  and  I  alone. 
Quick,  quick  dispatch  me  where  I  stand  ; 
Now  is  the  direful  doom  at  hand, 
Which  erst  the  Sabine  beldam  old, 
Shaking  her  magic  urn,  foretold 
In  days  when  I  was  yet  a  boy: 
1 '  Him  shall  no  poison  fell  destroy, 
Nor  hostile  sword  in  shock  of  war, 
Nor  gout,  nor  colic,  nor  catarrh. 
In  fulness  of  time  his  thread 
Shall  by  a  prate-apace  be  shred  ; 
So  let  him,  when  he's  twenty-one, 
If  he  be  wise,  all  babblers  shun. ' ' 


1 38  LITERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 


HORACE'S  MONUMENT. 

I'VE  reared  a  monument — my  own — 

More  durable  than  brass ; 
Yea,  kingly  pyramids  of  stone 

In  height  it  doth  surpass. 

4 

Rain  shall  not  sap,  nor  driving  blast 

Disturb  its  settled  base, 
Nor  countless  ages  rolling  past 

Its  symmetry  deface. 

I  shall  not  wholly  die.     Some  part, 

Nor  that  a  little,  shall 
Escape  the  dark  Destroyer's  dart, 

And  his  grim  festival. 

For  long  as,  with  his  Vestals  mute, 
Rome's  Pontifex  shall  climb 

The  Capitol,  my  fame  shall  shoot 
Fresh  buds  through  future  time. 

Where  brawls  loud  Aufidus  and  came 
Parched  Daunus  erst,  a  horde 

Of  mystic  boors  to  sway,  my  name 
Shall  be  a  household  word, 

As  one  who  rose  from  mean  estate, 

The  first,  with  poet's  fire, 
JEolic  song  to  modulate 

To  the  Italian  lyre. 

Then  grant,  Melpomene,  thy  son 
Thy  guerdon  proud  to  wear, 

And  Delphic  laurels,  duly  won, 
Bind  thou  upon  my  hair. 


LATIN  LITER ATURB.  139 


OVID. 

OVID  is  more  truly  the  representative  poet  of  Roman 
imperialism  than  even  Virgil.  The  latter  constantly  looks 
back  to  the  national  traditions  and  shows  how  the  Roman 
republic  rose  and  grew  to  greatness.  Ovid  began  his  career 
at  a  time  of  national  prosperity  when  peace  was  firmly  estab- 
lished and  amid  the  reaction  of  public  feeling  after  the  tur- 
moil and  carnage  of  civil  war.  The  regard  for  history  had 
declined  and  the  severer  studies  which  involved  intellectual 
exertion  had  given  way  to  love  of  pleasure  and  literature  of 
a  lighter  kind.  The  smooth-flowing,  gaily-tripping,  har- 
monious metres  of  Horace  and  Ovid  were  suited  to  the  lux- 
urious sentiments  and  mental  debauchery  of  the  age.  Virgil 
had  endeavored,  by  appealing  to  the  higher  motives  of  the 
governing  classes,  to  create  loyalty  and  enthusiasm  towards 
the  newly-established  Empire ;  but  now  the  people  sought 
pleasure,  and  Rome  was  the  seat  of  pleasure  as  well  as  the 
seat  of  government.  The  old  Roman  virtue  and  force  of 
character  which  had  once  been  the  mainstay  of  the  people's 
power,  were  now  sapped  by  the  encroaching  tide  of  Italian 
effeminacy,  which  portended  the  notorious  corruption  of  the 
later  Empire. 

Publius  Ovidius  Naso  was  born  at  Sulmo,  B.C.  48.  He 
was  trained  for  the  bar,  but  never  practiced  in  courts,  being 
indolent  and  of  weak  constitution.  His  equestrian  origin, 
his  culture,  and  his  independent  fortune  gave  him  easy  access 
to  the  fashionable  and  cultivated  society  of  Rome.  His 
poetical  talent  was  early  developed.  He  knew  what  pleased 
and  interested  his  audience  and  sang  accordingly.  Ovid  is  pre- 
sented to  us  in  two  phases  of  life,  which  stand  in  violent  con- 
trast to  each  other.  In  the  former  we  see  him  as  the  gay- 
hearted  gallant,  reckless  and  amatory,  devoting  his  highest 
art  to  the  service  of  sensuous  pleasure ;  in  the  latter,  we  see 
the  broken-hearted  exile  wearing  out  a  burdensome  life  on 
the  inhospitable  shores  of  the  Danube,  seeking  in  vain  for 
sympathy,  and  striving  by  fulsome  adulation  to  move  the 
clemency  and  obtain  the  forgiveness  of  the  emperor.  The 


140  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

exact  cause  of  Ovid's  banishment,  in  9  A.D.,  can  only  be  sur- 
mised. He  himself  mentions  two  charges,  a  "song"  and  an 
"error."  The  "song"  may  refer  to  the  "Art  of  Love,"  to 
which  Augustus  may  have  traced  evil  influences  in  the  im- 
perial family.  But  this  work  had  been  published  ten  years 
before  the  banishment.  The  "error"  might  have  reference 
to  some  compromising  act  in  the  royal  family  which  Ovid 
may  have  witnessed  or  abetted.  It  is  significant  that  Julia, 
the  emperor's  granddaughter,  was  banished  in  the  same  year 
as  the  poet,  and  Silanus,  her  paramour,  being  disgraced,  went 
into  voluntary  exile.  Ovid  died  in  Tomi  on  the  Euxine  Sea, 

A.D.   I/. 

Ovid's  literary  career  may  be  divided  into  three  periods 
corresponding  to  the  vicissitudes  of  his  life.  The  first  period 
is  that  of  the  amatory  poems,  the  lascivious  and  wanton  tones 
of  which  are  once  interrupted  by  the  plaintive  note  of  the 
death  of  his  fellow-poet  Tibullus.  To  this  period  belong 
also  the  u  Amores  "  suggested  by  a  series  of  trifling  incidents 
in  the  love  adventures  of  the  poet.  His  mistress,  he  tells  us, 
was  a  "lady"  (ingenua),  yet  he  likens  her  to  Lais,  the  ideal 
queen  of  Corinthian  courtesans.  The  broad  freedom,  and  yet 
refinement,  with  which  such  subjects  were  treated  proved  very 
attractive  to  the  fashionable  pleasure-seeking  class  in  which 
the  wanton  Julia  was  the  shining  light.  The  ' '  Hero'ides, ' ' 
called  also  "Epistles,"  are  also  assignable  to  the  first  period. 
They  are  a  series  of  imaginary  letters  artificial  and  monoto- 
nous, supposed  to  be  written  by  such  noted  characters  as 
Briseis,  Penelope  and  others.  Then  follows  the  "Art  of 
Love,"  a  poem  more  powerful  and  startling  than  anything 
Ovid  had  yet  attempted.  In  it  the  poet  plays  the  role  of 
teacher,  and  professedly  gives  a  recital  of  his  own  experiences. 
Notwithstanding  the  didactic  and  indelicate  tendency  of  the 
poem,  there  is  frequently  a  streak  of  genuine  poetry  and 
artistic  refinement  interwoven  with  the  expression  of  lewd 
conceptions. 

The  "Metamorphoses"  belongs  to  the  second  period  of 
Ovid's  literary  life,  and  disputes  with  the  "Art  of  Love" 
the  claim  to  be  the  poet's  masterpiece.  This  poem  traverses 
the  whole  area  of  Greek  mythology  from  chaos  and  the  crea- 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  14! 

tion  of  man  down  to  the  transformation  of  Julius  Caesar  into 
a  star  and  the  deification  of  Augustus.  The  "Fasti"  also 
mostly  belongs  to  the  second  period.  It  is  simply  a  sort  of 
calendar  giving  an  account,  partly  historical,  partly  mythical, 
of  the  Roman  festivals.  The  "Tristia"  (Lamentations) 
mark  the  last  period  of  the  poet's  work  and  life.  In  these, 
like  Cicero,  he  broods  over  and  bewails  his  sad  fate,  and  prays 
that  if  release  is  not  granted,  another  place  of  banishment 
may  be  assigned  to  him.  His  prayer  was  never  answered. 

NIOBE. 

FAIR  Niobe,  who,  when  a  virgin  dwelt 
In  L,ydian  Sipylus,  now  queen  of  Thebes, 
Proudly  refused  before  the  gods  to  bend, 
And  spoke  in  haughty  boasting.     Much  her  pride 
By  favoring  gifts  was  swollen.     Not  the  fine  skill 
Amphion  practiced ;  not  the  lofty  birth 
Each  claimed ;  not  all  their  mighty  kingdom's  power, 
So  raised  her  soul  (of  all  though  j  ustly  proud) 
As  her  bright  offspring.     Justly  was  she  called 
Most  blest  of  mothers ;  but  her  bliss  too  great 
Seemed  to  herself,  and  caused  a  dread  reverse. 

Now  Manto,  sprung  from  old  Tiresias,  skilled 
In  future  fate,  impelled  by  power  divine, 
In  every  street  with  wild  prophetic  tongue 
Exclaimed:    "Ye  Theban  matrons,  haste  in  crowds, 
Your  incense  offer,  and  your  pious  prayers, 
To  great  Latona  and  the  heavenly  Twins, 
L,atona's  offspring ;  all  your  temples  bind 
With  laurel  garlands.     This  the  goddess  bids  ; 
Through  me  commands  it. ' '     All  of  Thebes  obey, 
And  gird  their  foreheads  with  the  ordered  leaves, 
The  incense  burn,  and  with  the  sacred  flames 
Their  pious  prayers  ascend.     L,o !  'midst  a  crowd 
Of  nymphs  attendant,  far  conspicuous  seen, 
Comes  Niobe,  in  gorgeous  Phrygian  robe, 
Inwrought  with  gold,  attired.     Beauteous  her  form, 
Beauteous,  as  rage  permitted.     Angry  shook 
Her  graceful  head ;  and  angry  shook  the  locks 
That  o'er  each  shoulder  waved.    Proudly  she  towered, 


142  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Her  haughty  eyes  round  from  her  lofty  stand 

Wide  darting,  cried :  "  What  madness  this  to  place 

Reported  gods  above  the  gods  you  see ! 

Why  to  lyatona's  altars  bend  ye  low, 

Nor  incense  burn  before  my  power  divine  ? 

My  sire  was  Tantalus :  of  mortals  sole, 

Celestial  feasts  he  shared.     A  Pleiad  nymph 

Me  bore.     My  grandsire  is  the  mighty  king, 

Whose  shoulders  all  the  load  of  heaven  sustain. 

Jove  is  my  father's  parent :  him  I  boast 

As  sire-in-law  too.     All  the  Phrygian  towns 

Bend  to  my  sway.     The  hall  of  Cadmus  owns 

Me  sovereign  mistress.     Thebes'  high  towering  walls, 

Raised  by  my  consort's  lute,  and  all  the  crowd 

Who  dwell  inclosed,  his  rule  and  mine  obey. 

Where'er  within  my  palace  turn  mine  eyes, 

•Treasures  immense  I  view.     Brightness  divine 

I  boast :  to  all  seven  blooming  daughters  add, 

And  seven  fair  sons ;  through  whom  I  soon  expect, 

If  Hymen  favors,  seven  more  sons  to  see, 

And  seven  more  daughters.     Need  ye  further  seek 

Whence  I  have  cause  for  boasting  ?    Dare  ye  still 

Latona,  from  Titanian  Caeus  sprung, — 

The  unknown  Caeus, — she  to  whom  all  earth 

In  bearing  pangs  the  smallest  space  denied : — 

This  wretch  to  my  divinity  prefer  ? 

Not  heaven  your  goddess  would  receive ;  not  earth ; 

Not  ocean :  exiled  from  the  world,  she  wept, 

Till  Delos  sorrowing, — wanderer  like  herself, 

Exclaimed :   '  Thou  dreary  wanderest  over  the  earth, 

I  o'er  the  main ; ' — and  sympathizing  thus, 

A  resting  spot  afforded.     There  become 

Only  of  two  the  mother — can  she  vie 

With  one  whose  womb  has  sevenfold  hers  surpassed? 

Blest  am  I.     Who  can  slightly  e'er  arraign 

To  happiness  my  claim  ?     Blest  will  I  still 

Continue.     Who  my  bliss  can  ever  doubt  ? 

Abundance  guards  its  surety.     Far  beyond 

The  power  of  fortune  is  my  lot  upraised : 

Snatch  them  in  numbers  from  me,  crowds  more  great 

Must  still  remain.     My  happy  state  contemns 

Even  now  the  threats  of  danger.     Grant  the  power 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  143 

Of  fate  this  nation  of  my  womb  to  thine,— 

Of  part  deprived,  impossible  I  shrink 

To  poor  L,atona's  two — how  scant  removed 

From  mothers  childless  !     Quit  your  rites ; — quick  haste 

And  tear  those  garlands  from  your  flowing  hair." 

Aside  the  garlands  thrown,  and  incomplete 
The  rites  relinquished,  what  the  Thebans  could 
They  gave :  their  whispering  prayers  the  matron  dame 
Addressed.     With  ire  the  angry  goddess  flamed, 
And  thus  on  Cynthus'  lofty  top  bespoke 
Her  double  offspring :  "  O  my  children !  see 
Your  parent,  proud  your  parent  to  be  called, — 
To  no  celestial  yielding,  save  the  queen 
Of  Jove  supreme.     I,o  !  doubted  is  my  claim 
To  rites  divine ;  and  from  the  altars,  burnt 
To  me  from  endless  ages,  driven,  I  go, 
Save  by  my  children  succored.     Nor  this  grief 
Alone  me  irks,  for  Niobe  me  mocks ! 
Her  daring  crime  increasing,  proud  she  sets 
Her  offspring  far  above  you.     Me  too  she  spurns, — 
To  her  in  number  yielding ;  childless  calls 
My  bed,  and  proves  the  impious  stock  which  gave 
Her  tongue  first  utterance."     More  Latona  felt 
Prepared  to  utter ;  more  beseechings  bland 
For  her  young  offspring,  when  Apollo  cried : 
"  Enough,  desist  to  plain ; — delay  is  long 
Till  vengeance."     Diana  joined  him  in  his  ire. 

Swift  gliding  down  the  sky,  and  veiled  in  clouds, 
On  Cadmus'  roof  they  lighted.     Wide  was  spread 
A  level  plain,  by  constant  hoofs  well  beat, 
The  city's  walls  adjoining ;  crowding  wheels 
And  coursers'  feet  the  rolling  dust  upturned. 
Here  of  Atnphion's  offspring  daily  some 
Mount  their  fleet  steeds ;  their  trappings  gaily  press 
Of  Tyrian  dye :  heavy  with  gold,  the  reins 
They  guide.     '  Mid  these  Ismenos,  primal  born 
Of  Niobe,  as  round  the  circling  course 
His  well-trained  steed  he  sped,  and  strenuous  curbed 
His  foaming  mouth, — loudly  "Ah  me  !  "  exclaimed, 
As  through  his  bosom  deep  the  dart  was  driven : 
Dropped  from  his  dying  hands  the  slackened  reins  ; 
Slowly  and  sidelong  from  his  courser's  back 


144  UTERATURE   OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

He  tumbled.     Sipylus  gave  unchecked  scope 

To  his,  when  through  the  empty  air  he  heard 

The  rattling  quiver  sound :  thus  speeding  clouds 

Beheld,  the  guider  of  the  ruling  helm, 

A  threatening  tempest  fearing,  looses  wide 

His  every  sail  to  catch  the  lightest  breeze. 

lyoose  flowed  his  reins.     The  inevitable  dart 

The  flowing  reins  quick  followed.     Quivering  shooK, 

Fixed  in  his  upper  neck,  the  naked  steel, 

Far  through  his  throat  protruding.     Prone  he  fell 

O'er  his  high  courser's  head ;  his  smoking  gore, 

The  ground  defiling.     Hapless  Phcedimas, 

And  Tantalus,  his  grandsire's  name  who  bore, 

Their  accustomed  sport  laborious  ended,  strove 

With  youthful  vigor  in  the  wrestling  toil. 

Now  breast  to  breast  they  strained  with  nervous  grasp, 

When  the  swift  arrow  from  the  bended  bow 

Both  bodies  pierced,  as  close  both  bodies  joined; 

At  once  they  groaned ;  at  once  their  limbs  they  threw, 

With  agonies  convulsed,  prone  on  the  earth ; 

At  once  their  rolling  eyes  the  light  forsook ; 

At  once  their  souls  were  yielded  forth  to  air. 

Alphenor  saw,  and  smote  his  grieving  breast ; 
Flew  to  their  pallid  limbs,  and  as  he  raised 
Their  bodies,  in  the  pious  office  fell : 
For  Phoebus  drove  his  fate-winged  arrow  deep 
Through  what  his  heart  inclosed.     Sudden  withdrawn, 
On  the  barbed  head  the  mangled  lungs  were  stuck  ; 
And  high  in  air  his  soul  gushed  forth  in  blood. 
But  beardless  Damasichthon  by  a  wound 
Not  single  fell,  as  those ;  struck  where  the  leg 
To  form  begins,  and  where  the  nervous  ham 
A  yielding  joint  supplies.     The  deadly  dart 
To  draw  essaying,  in  his  throat,  full  driven 
Up  to  the  feathered  head,  another  came : 
The  sanguine  flood  expelled  it,  gushing  high, 
Cutting  the  distant  air.     With  outstretched  arms 
Ilioneus,  the  last,  besought  in  vain  ; 
Exclaiming, — "Spare  me,  spare  me,  all  ye  gods !  " 
Witless  that  all  not  joined  to  cause  his  woe. 
The  god  was  touched  with  pity,  touched  too  late, — 
Already  shot  the  irrevocable  dart : 


I«ATIN  LITERATURE. 


145 


Yet  light  the  blow  was  given,  and  mild  the  wound 
That  pierced  his  heart,  and  sent  his  soul  aloft. 

The  rumored  ill ;  the  mourning  people's  groans ; 
The  servants'  tears,  soon  made  the  mother  know 
The  sudden  ruin :  wondering  first  she  stands, 
To  see  so  great  Heaven's  power,  then  angry  flames 
Indignant,  that  such  power  they  dare  to  use. 
The  sire  Amphion  in  his  bosom  plunged 
His  sword,  and  ended  life  at  once  and  woe. 
Heavens !  how  removed  this  Niobe  from  her 
Who  drove  so  lately  from  Latona's  fane 
The  pious  crowds ;  who  marched  in  lofty  state, 
TLrough  every  street  of  Thebes,  an  envied  sight ! 
Now  to  be  wept  by  even  her  bitterest  foes. 
Prostrate  upon  their  gelid  limbs  she  lies ; 
Now  this,  now  that,  her  trembling  kisses  press ; 
Her  livid  arms  high-stretching  unto  heaven, 
Exclaims, — "  Enjoy,  Latona,  cruel  dame, 
My  sorrows ;  feed  on  all  my  wretched  woes ; 
Glut  with  my  load  of  grief  thy  savage  soul ; 
Feast  thy  fell  heart  with  seven  funereal  scenes ; 
Triumph,  victorious  foe!  conqueror,  exult! 
Victorious !  said  I  ? — How  ?    To  wretched  me 
Still  more  are  left,  than  joyful  thou  canst  boast : 
Superior  I  midst  all  this  loss  remain." 

She  spoke ; — the  twanging  bowstring  sounded  loud ! 
Terrific  noise — to  all,  save  Niobe : 
She  stood  audacious,  callous  in  her  crime. 
In  mourning  vesture  clad,  with  tresses  loose, 
Around  the  funeral  couches  of  the  slain, 
The  weeping  sisters  stood.     One  strives  to  pluck 
The  deep-stuck  arrow  from  her  bowels, — falls, 
And  fainting  dies,  her  brother's  clay-cold  corpse 
Pressed  with  her  lips.     Another's  soothing  word? 

IV— 10 


LITERATURE  OF  At,!,  NATIONS. 

Her  hapless  parent  strive  to  cheer, — struck  dumb, 
She  bends  beneath  an  unseen  wound  ;  her  words 
Reach  not  her  parent  till  her  life  is  fled. 
This,  vainly  flying,  falls :  that  drops  in  death 
Upon  her  sister's  body.     One  to  hide 
Attempts :  another  pale  and  trembling  dies. 
Six  now  lie  breathless,  each  by  varied  wounds ; 
One  sole  remaining,  whom  the  mother  shields, 
Wrapt  in  her  vest;  her  body  o'er  her  flung, 
Exclaiming, — "  Leave  me  this,  my  youngest, — last, 
Least  of  my  mighty  numbers, — one  alone !  " 
But  while  she  prays,  the  damsel  prayed  for  dies. 

Of  all  deprived,  the  solitary  dame, 
Amid  the  lifeless  bodies  of  her  sons, 
Her  daughters,  and  her  spouse,  by  sorrows  steeled, 
Sits  hardened :  no  light  gale  her  tresses  moves ; 
No  blood  her  reddened  cheeks  contain ;  her  eyes 
Motionless  glare  upon  her  mournful  face ; 
Life  quits  the  statue :  even  her  tongue  congeals 
Within  her  stony  palate ;  vital  floods 
Cease  in  her  veins  to  flow ;  her  neck  to  bow 
Resists ;  her  arms  to  move  in  graceful  guise ; 
Her  feet  to  step ;  and  even  to  stone  are  turned 
Her  inmost  bowels.     Still  to  weep  she  seems. 
Rapt  in  a  furious  whirlwind,  distant  far 
Her  natal  soil  receives  her.     There  fixed  high 
On  a  hill's  utmost  summit,  still  she  melts ; 
Still  does  the  rigid  marble  flow  in  tears. 


COPYRIGHT.    1900 


E.    P»UPION,    P 


THISBE 


LATIN  LITERATURE*  147 


PYRAMUS  AND  THISBE. 

THISBE,  the  brightest  of  the  eastern  maids  ; 
And  Pyramus,  the  pride  of  all  the  youths, 
Contiguous  dwellings  held,  in  that  famed  town, 
Where  lofty  walls  of  stone  we  learn  were  raised 
By  bold  Semiramis.     Their  neighboring  site 
Acquaintance  first  encouraged,— primal  step 
To  further  intimacy:  love,  in  time, 
Grew  from  this  chance  connection ;  and  they  longed 
To  join  by  lawful  rites :  but  harsh  forbade 
Their  rigid  sires  the  union  fate  had  doomed. 
With  equal  ardor  both  their  minds  inflamed 
Burnt  fierce ;  and  absent  every  watchful  spy, 
By  nods  and  signs  they  spoke ;  for  close  their  love 
Concealed  they  kept ; — concealed,  it  burned  more  fierce. 
The  severing  wall  a  narrow  chink  contained, 
Formed  when  first  reared  ; — what  will  not  love  espy  ? 
This  chink,  by  all  for  ages  past  unseen, 
The  lovers  first  espied. — This  opening  gave 
A  passage  for  their  voices ;  safely  through 
Their  tender  words  were  breathed  in  whisperings  soft. 
Oft  punctual  at  their  posts, — on  this  side  she, 
And  Pyramus  on  that ; — each  breathing  sighs, 
By  turns  inhaling,  have  they  mutual  cried ; 
"Invidious  wall !  why  lovers  thus  divide? 
Much  were  it,  did  thy  parts  more  wide  recede, 
And  suffer  us  to  join  ?  were  that  too  much 
A  little  opening  more,  and  we  might  meet 
With  lips  at  least.     Yet  grateful  still  we  own 
Thy  kind  indulgence,  which  a  passage  gives, 
And  amorous  words  conveys  to  loving  ears." 
Thus  they  loquacious,  though  on  sides  diverse, 
Till  night  their  converse  stayed ; — then  cried,  "Adieu  !  " 
And  each  imprinted  kisses,  which  the  stones 
Forbade  to  taste.     Soon  as  Aurora's  fires 
Removed  the  shades  of  night,  and  Phoebus'  rays 
From  the  moist  earth  the  dew  exhaled,  they  meet 
As  'customed  at  the  wall :  lamenting  deep, 
As  wont  in  murmuring  whispers ;  bold  they  plaji, 


148  LITERATURE  OF  ALl,  NATIONS. 

Their  guards  evading  in  the  silent  night, 

To  pass  the  outer  gates.     Then,  when  escaped 

From  home,  to  leave  the  city's  dangerous  shade; 

But  lest,  in  wandering  o'er  the  spacious  plains 

They  miss  to  meet,  at  Ninus'  sacred  tomb 

They  fix  their  assignation, — hid  concealed 

Beneath  the  umbrageous  leaves.     There  grew  a  tree, 

Close  bordering  on  a  cooling  fpuntain's  brink ; 

A  stately  mulberry; — snow-white  fruit  hung  thick 

On  every  branch.     The  plot  pleased  well  the  pair. 

And  now  slow  seems  the  car  of  Sol  to  sink ; 
Slow  from  the  ocean  seems  the  night  to  rise ; 
Till  Thisbe,  cautious,  by  the  darkness  veiled, 
Soft  turns  the  hinges,  and  her  guards  beguiles. 
Her  features  veiled,  the  tomb  she  reaches, — sits 
Beneath  the  appointed  tree :  love  makes  her  bold. 
Lo !  comes  a  lioness, — her  jaws  besmeared 
With  gory  foam,  fresh  from  the  slaughtered  herd, 
Deep  in  the  adjoining  fount  her  thirst  to  slake. 
Far  off  the  Babylonian  maid  beheld 
By  L,una's  rays  the  horrid  foe, — quick  fled 
With  trembling  feet,  and  gained  a  darksome  cave : 
Flying,  she  dropped  and  left  her  robe  behind. 
Now  had  the  savage  beast  her  thirst  allayed, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  roaming,  found 
The  veiling  robe,  its  tender  texture  rent, 
And  smeared  the  spoil  with  bloody  jaws.     The  youth 
(With  later  fortune  his  strict  watch  escaped) 
Saw  the  plain  footsteps  of  a  monster  huge 
Deep  in  the  sand  indented ! — O'er  his  face 
Pale  terror  spread :  but  when  the  robe  he  saw, 
With  blood  besmeared  and  mangled ;  loud  he  cried, — 
"  One  night  shall  close  two  lovers'  eyes  in  death ! 
She  most  deserving  of  a  longer  date ; 
Mine  is  the  fault  alone.     Dear  luckless  maid  ! 
I  have  destroyed  thee ; — I,  who  bade  thee  keep 
Nocturnal  meetings  in  this  dangerous  place, 
And  came  not  first  to  shield  thy  steps  from  harm. 
Ye  lions,  wheresoe'er  within  those  caves 
Ye  lurk  !  haste  hither, — tear  me  limb  from  limb ! 
Fierce  ravaging  devour,  and  make  my  tomb 
Your  horrid  entrails."     But  for  death  to  wish 


LATIN  LITERATURE;.  149 

A  coward's  turn  may  serve.     The  robe  lie  takes, 
Once  Thisbe's,  and  beneath  the  appointed  tree 
Bearing  it,  bathed  in  tears ;  with  ardent  lips 
Oft  fondly  kissing,  thus  he  desperate  cries ; — 
"Now  with  my  blood  be  also  bathed  !— drink  deep !  " 
And  in  his  body  plunged  the  sword,  that  round 
His  loins  hung  ready  girt :  then  as  he  died, 
Hasty  withdrew,  hot  reeking  from  the  wound, 
The  steel ;  and  backwards  falling,  pressed  the  earth. 
High  spouts  the  sanguine  flood !  thus  forth  a  pipe 
(The  lead  decayed,  or  damaged)  sends  a  stream 
Contracted  from  the  breach ;  upspringing  high 
And  loudly  hissing,  as  the  air  it  breaks 
With  jets  repeated.     Sprinkled  with  the  blood, 
The  tree's  white  fruit  a  purple  tinge  received; 
Deep  soaked  with  blood  the  roots  convey  the  stain 
Inly,  and  tinge  each  bough  with  Tyrian  dye. 

Now  Thisbe  comes,  with  terror  trembling  still, 
Fearful  she  Pyramus  expecting  waits : 
Him  seek  her  beating  bosom  and  her  eyes  ; 
Anxious  the  peril  she  escaped  to  tell. 
Well  marked  her  eyes  the  place, — and  well  the  tree ; 
The  berries  changed  in  color,  long  she  doubts 
The  same  or  no.     While  hesitating  thus, 
The  panting  members  quivering  she  beholds, 
Upon  the  sanguined  turf;  and  back  recoils ! 
Paler  than  box  her  features  grow ;  her  limbs 
More  tremble  than  when  ocean  fretful  sounds, 
Its  surface  briskly  by  the  breezes  swept. 
Nor  long  the  pause,  her  lover  soon  is  known  ; 
And  now  her  harmless  breast  with  furious  blows 
She  punishes :  her  tresses  wild  she  rends ; 
Clasps  the  loved  body;  and  the  gaping  wound 
Fills  with  her  tears, — their  droppings  with  the  blood 
Immingling.     On  his  clay-cold  face  she  pressed 
Her  kisses,  crying :  ' '  Pyramus  !  what  chance 
Has  torn  thee  from  me  thus  ?    My  Pyramus ! 
Answer  me, — 'tis  thy  dearest  Thisbe  speaks ! 
She  calls  thee, — hear  me, — raise  that  dying  face !  " 
At  Thisbe's  name,  his  lids,  with  death  hard  weighed, 
He  raised — beheld  her, — and  forever  closed. 

Him  dying  thus, — her  lacerated  veil,, 


150  tlTERATURS  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  ivory  scabbard  emptied  of  its  sword, 

She  saw, — at  once  the  truth  upon  her  mind 

Flashed  quick.     ' '  Alas !  thy  hand,  by  love  impelled, 

Has  wrought  thy  ruin :  but  to  me  the  hand, 

In  this,  at  least,  shall  equal  force  display, 

For  equal  was  my  love ;  and  love  will  grant 

Sufficient  strength  the  deadly  wound  to  give. 

In  death  I'll  follow  thee;  with  justice  called 

Thy  ruin's  wretched  cause, — but  comrade  too. 

Thou,  whom  but  death  seemed  capable  to  part 

From  me,  shalt  find  even  death  too  weak  will  prove. 

Ye  wretched  mourning  parents,  his  and  mine ! 

The  dying  prayers  respect  of  him, — of  me : 

Grant  that,  entombed  together,  both  may  rest ; 

A  pair  by  faithful  love  conjoined, — by  death 

United  close.     And  thou,  fair  tree,  which  shad'st 

Of  one  the  miserable  corpse ;  and  two 

Soon  with  thy  boughs  wilt  cover, — bear  the  mark 

Of  the  sad  deed  eternal ; — tinged  be  thy  fruit 

With  mournful  coloring — monumental  type 

Of  double  slaughter."     Speaking  thus,  she  placed 

The  steely  point,  while  yet  with  blood  it  smoked, 

Beneath  her  swelling  breast ;  and  forward  fell. 

Her  final  prayer  reached  heaven ;  her  parents  reached : 

Purple  the  berries  blush,  when  ripened  full; 

And  in  one  urn  the  lovers'  ashes  rest. 

BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 

Two  neighboring  trees,  with  walls  encompass' d  round, 
Stand  on  a  moderate  rise,  with  wonder  shown ; 
One  a  hard  oak,  a  softer  linden  one : 
I  saw  the  place  and  them,  by  Pittheus  sent 
To  Phrygian  realms,  my  grandsire's  government. 
Not  far  from  thence  is  seen  a  lake,  the  haunt 
Of  coots  and  of  the  fishing  cormorant : 
Here  Jove  with  Hermes  came ;  but  in  disguise 
Of  mortal  men  concealed  their  deities ; 
One  laid  aside  his  thunder,  one  his  rod, 
And  many  toilsome  steps  together  trod : 
For  harbor  at  a  thousand  doors  they  knocked  ; 
Not  one  of  all  the  thousand  but  was  locked. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  15! 

At  last  a  hospitable  house  they  found, 

A  homely  shed ;  the  roof,  not  far  from  ground, 

Was  thatched,  with  reeds  and  straw  together  bound. 

There  Baucis  and  Philemon  lived,  and  there 

Had  lived  long  married,  and  a  happy  pair: 

Now  old  in  love,  though  little  was  their  store, 

Inured  to  want,  their  poverty  they  bore, 

Nor  aimed  at  wealth,  professing  to  be  poor. 

For  master  or  for  servant  here  to  call 

Were  all  alike,  where  only  two  were  all. 

Command  was  none,  where  equal  love  was  paid, 

Or  rather  both  commanded,  both  obeyed. 
From  lofty  roofs  the  gods  repulsed  before, 

Now  stooping,  entered  through  the  little  door : 

The  man  (their  hearty  welcome  first  expressed) 

A  common  settle  drew  for  either  guest, 

Inviting  each  his  weary  limbs  to  rest. 

But  ere  they  sat,  officious  Baucis  lays 

Two  cushions  stuffed  with  straw,  the  seat  to  raise ; 

Coarse,  but  the  best  she  had ;  then  rakes  the  load 

Of  ashes  from  the  hearth,  and  spreads  abroad 

The  living  coals ;  and,  lest  they  should  expire, 

With  leaves  and  bark  she  feeds  her  infant  fire. 

It  smokes ;  and  then  with  trembling  breath  she  blows, 

Till  in  a  cheerful  blaze  the  flames  arose. 

With  brushwood  and  with  chips  she  strengthens  these, 

And  adds  at  last  the  boughs  of  rotten  trees.  • 

The  fire  thus  formed,  she  sets  the  kettle  on 

(Like  burnished  gold  the  little  seether  shone ;) 

Next  took  the  coleworts  which  her  husband  got 

From  his  own  ground  (a  small,  well-watered  spot ;) 

She  stripped  the  stalks  of  all  their  leaves ;  the  best 

She  culled,  and  them  with  handy  care  she  dressed. 

High  o'er  the  hearth  a  chine  of  bacon  hung; 

Good  old  Philemon  seized  it  with  a  prong, 

And  from  the  sooty  rafter  drew  it  down, 

Then  cut  a  slice,  but  scarce  enough  for  one  ; 

Yet  a  large  portion  of  a  little  store, 

Which  for  their  sakes  alone  he  wished  were  more. 

This  in  the  pot  he  plunged  without  delay, 

To  tame  the  flesh  and  drain  the  salt  away. 

The  time  between,  before  the  fire  they  sat, 


152  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

And  shortened  the  delay  by  pleasing  chat. 

A  beam  there  was,  on  which  a  beechen  pail 

Hung  by  the  handle  on  a  driven  nail :' 

This  filled  with  water,  gently  warmed,  they  set 

Before  their  guests  ;  in  this  they  bathed  their  feet, 

And  after  with  clean  towels  dried  their  sweat. 

This  done,  the  host  produced  the  genial  bed, 

Sallow  the  feet,  the  borders,  and  the  stead, 

Which  with  no  costly  coverlet  they  spread, 

But  coarse  old  garments ;  yet  such  robes  as  these 

They  lay  alone  at  feasts  on  holydays. 

The  good  old  housewife,  tucking  up  her  gown, 

The  table  sets ;  the  invited  gods  lie  down. 

The  trivet-table  of  a  foot  was  lame, 

A  blot  which  prudent  Baucis  overcame, 

Who  thrust  beneath  the  limping  leg  a  sherd ; 

So  was  the  mended  board  exactly  reared ; 

Then  rubbed  it  o'er  with  newly-gathered  mint, 

A  wholesome  herb,  that  breathed  a  grateful  scent. 

Pallas  began  the  feast,  where  first  was  seen 

The  party-colored  olive,  black  and  green ; 

Autumnal  cornels  next  in  order  served, 

In  lees  of  wine  well  pickled  and  preserved. 

A  garden  salad  was  the  third  supply, 

Of  endives,  radishes,  and  succory : 

Then  curds  and  cream,  the  flower  of  country  fare, 

And  new-laid  eggs,  which  Baucis'  busy  care 

Turned  by  a  gentle  fire,  and  roasted  rare. 

All  these  in  earthenware  were  served  to  board, 

And,  next  in  place,  an  earthen  pitcher  stored 

With  liquor  of  the  best  the  cottage  could  afford. 

This  was  the  table's  ornament  and  pride, 

With  figures  wrought :  like  pages  at  his  side 

Stood  beechen  bowls ;  and  these  were  shining  clean, 

Varnished  with  wax  without,  and  lined  within. 

By  this  the  boiling  kettle  had  prepared 

And  to  the  table  sent  the  smoking  lard  ; 

On  which  with  eager  appetite  they  dine, 

A  savory  bit,  that  served  to  relish  wine ; 

The  wine  itself  was  suiting  to  the  rest, 

Still  working  in  the  must,  and  lately  pressed. 

The  second  course  succeeds  like  that  before. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  153 

Plums,  apples,  nuts ;  and  of  their  wintry  store 
Dry  figs,  and  grapes,  and  wrinkled  dates  were  set 
In  canisters,  to  enlarge  the  little  treat : 
All  these  a  milk-white  honey-comb  surround, 
Which  in  the  midst  a  country  banquet  crowned : 
But  the  kind  hosts  their  entertainment  grace 
With  hearty  welcome  and  an  open  face : 
In  all  they  did,  you  might  discern  with  ease 
A  willing  mind  and  a  desire  to  please. 

Meanwhile  the  beechen  bowls  went  round  and  still, 
Though  often  emptied,  were  observed  to  fill : 
Filled  without  hands,  and,  of  their  own  accord, 
Ran  without  feet,  and  danced  about  the  board. 
Devotion  seized  the  pair,  to  see  the  feast 
With  wine,  and  of  no  common  grape,  increased ; 
And  up  they  held  their  hands,  and  fell  to  prayer, 
Excusing,  as  they  could,  their  country  fare. 

One  goose  they  had  ('twas  all  they  could  allow), 
A  wakeful  sentry,  and  on  duty  now, 
Whom  to  the  gods  for  sacrifice  they  vow  : 
Her  with  malicious  zeal  the  couple  viewed ; 
She  ran  for  life,  and  limping  they  pursued  ; 
Full  well  the  fowl  perceived  their  bad  intent, 
And  would  not  make  her  master's  compliment ; 
But  persecuted,  to  the  powers  she  flies, 
And  close  between  the  legs  of  Jove  she  lies : 
He  with  a  gracious  ear  the  suppliant  heard, 
And  saved  her  life ;  then  what  he  was  declared, 
And  owned  the  god,  "The  neighborhood,"  said  he, 
"Shall  justly  perish  for  impiety ; 
You  stand  alone  exempted :  but  obey 
With  speed,  and  follow  where  we  lead  the  way : 
Leave  these  accursed,  and  to  the  mountain's  height 
Ascend,  nor  once  look  backward  in  your  flight. ' ' 

They  haste,  and  what  their  tardy  feet  denied, 
The  trusty  staff  (their  better  leg)  supplied. 
An  arrow's  flight  they  wanted  to  the  top, 
And  there  secure,  but  spent  with  travel,  stop  ; 
They  turn  their  now  no  more  forbidden  eyes ; 
Lost  in  a  lake  the  floated  level  lies : 
A  watery  desert  covers  all  the  plains, 
Their  cot  alone,  as  in  an  isle,  remains. 


154  LITERATURE   OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

Wondering,  with  weeping  eyes,  while  they  deplore 
Their  neighbors'  fate  and  country  now  no  more ; 
Their  little  shed,  scarce  large  enough  for  two, 
Seems,  from  the  ground  increased,  in  height  and  bulk 

to  grow. 

A  stately  temple  shoots  within  the  skies, 
The  crotches  of  their  cot  in  columns  rise ; 
The  pavement  polished  marble  they  behold, 
The  gates  with  sculpture  graced,  the  spires  and  tiles 
of  gold. 

Then  thus  the  sire  of  gods,  with  looks  serene : 
"Speak  thy  desire,  thou  only  just  of  men  ; 
And  thou,  O  woman,  only  worthy  found 
To  be  with  such  a  man  in  marriage  bound. ' ' 

A  while  they  whisper ;  then,  to  Jove  addressed, 
Philemon  thus  prefers  their  joint  request: 
' '  We  crave  to  serve  before  your  sacred  shrine, 
And  offer  at  your  altar  rites  divine : 
And  since  not  any  action  of  our  life 
Has  been  polluted  with  domestic  strife, 
We  beg  one  hour  of  death,  that  neither  she 
With  widow's  tears  may  live  to  bury  me, 
Nor  weeping  I,  with  withered  arms,  may  bear 
My  breathless  Baucis  to  the  sepulchre." 
The  godheads  sign  their  suit.     They  run  their  race, 
In  the  same  tenor,  all  the  appointed  space : 
Then,  when  their  hour  was  come,  while  they  relate 
These  past  adventures  at  the  temple  gate, 
Old  Baucis  is  by  old  Philemon  seen 
Sprouting  with  sudden  leaves  of  sprightly  green : 
Old  Baucis  looked  where  old  Philemon  stood, 
And  saw  his  lengthen 'd  arms  a  sprouting  wood: 
New  roots  their  fastened  feet  begin  to  bind, 
Their  bodies  stiffen  in  a  rising  rind : 
Then,  ere  the  bark  above  their  shoulders  grew, 
They  give  and  take  at  once  their  last  adieu. 
At  once  "  Farewell,  O  faithful  spouse,"  they  said ; 
At  once  the  encroaching  rinds  their  closing  lips  invade. 
Even  yet,  an  ancient  Tyansean  shows 
A  spreading  oak,  that  near  a  linden  grows ; 
The  neighborhood  confirm  the  prodigy, 
Grave  men,  not  vain  of  tongue,  or  like  to  lie; 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  155 

I  saw  myself  the  garlands  on  their  boughs, 

And  tablets  hung  for  gifts  of  granted  vows ; 

And  offering  fresher  up,  with  pious  prayer, 

"The  good,"  said  I,  "  are  God's  peculiar  care, 

And  such  as  honor  Heaven  shall  heavenly  honor  share." 


TIBUIXUS. 

THROUGH  the  patronage  of  the  Emperor  Augustus,  ama- 
tory or  erotic  poetry  received  a  powerful  impulse  and  rose  to 
a  high  position.  The  Roman  names  that  overshadow  all 
others  in  this  variety  of  lyric,  are  those  of  Tibullus,  Propertius 
and  Ovid,  who  excelled  their  Greek  models. 

Albius  Tibullus  came  of  an  equestrian  family  whose  estate 
was  near  Tibur.  Here  he  passed  most  of  his  brief  life.  The 
inspiration  for  the  first  of  his  three  books  of  elegies  arose  out 
of  his  attachment  to  Delia,  a  real  personage.  When  Delia 
proved  faithless,  the  poet's  love  was  transferred  to  Nemesis, 
the  subject  of  the  second  book.  Later  he  turned  to  Glycera, 
probably  the  Glycera  mentioned  by  Horace,  and  to  her  the 
third  book  is  devoted.  The  fourth  book  is  a  sort  of  supple- 
ment, containing  pieces  by  Tibullus  and  some  of  his  friends, 
one  of  whom  was  a  lady. 

Tibullus  is  a  poet  of  refined  taste  ;  his  verses  are  smooth 
and  polished ;  his  metres  are  varied,  and  always  skillfully 
handled.  He  was  much  esteemed  by  Horace,  and  still  occu- 
pies the  first  place  in  Roman  elegy,  which,  like  the  Greek, 
permitted  a  wide  range  of  personal  feeling. 

ELEGY  TO  DELIA. 

OH  !  I  was  harsh  to  say  that  I  could  part 

From  thee  ;  but,  Delia,  I  am  bold  no  more ! 
.  Driven  like  a  top,  which  boys  with  ready  art 
Keep  spinning  round  upon  a  level  floor. 

Burn,  lash  me,  love,  if  ever  after  this 

By  me  one  cruel,  blustering  word  is  said  ; 

Yet  spare,  I  pray  thee  by  our  stolen  bliss, 
By  mighty  Venus  and  thy  comely  head. 


156  LITERATURE   OF  AH,  NATIONS. 

When  thou  didst  lie  by  fell  disease  o'erpowered, 
I  rescued  thee,  by  prayers,  from  death's  domain ; 

Pure  sulphur's  cleansing  fumes  I  round  thee  showered, 
While  an  enchantress  sung  a  magic  strain. 

Yes — and  another  now  enjoys  the  prize, 

And  reaps  the  fruit  of  all  my  vows  for  thee ; 

Foolish,  I  dreamed  of  life  'neath  golden  skies, 
Wert  thou  but  saved — not  such  great  Heaven's  decree. 

I  said — I'll  till  my  fields,  she'll  guard  my  store 

When  crops  are  threshed  in  autumn's  burning  heat  ; 

She'll  keep  my  grapes  in  baskets  brimming  o'er, 
And  my  rich  must*  expressed  by  nimble  feet. 

She'll  count  my  flock ;  some  home-born  slave  of  mine 
Will  prattle  in  my  darling's  lap  and  play : 

To  rural  god  ripe  clusters  for  the  vine, 

Sheaves  for  my  crops,  cates  for  my  fold,  she'll  pay. 

Slaves — all  shall  own  her  undisputed  rule ; 

Myself  a  cypher — how  the  thought  would  please ; 
Here  will  Messala  come,  for  whom  she'll  pull 

The  sweetest  apples  from  the  choicest  trees ; 

And,  honoring  one  so  great,  for  him  prepare 

And  serve  the  banquet  with  her  own  white  hands. 

Fond  dream  !  which  now  the  east  and  south  winds  bear 
Away  to  far  Armenia's  spicy  lands. 

SULPICIA  ON  CERINTHUS  GOING  TO  THE  CHASE. 

WHETHER,  fierce  boars,  in  flowery  meads  ye  stray, 
Or  haunt  the  shady  mountain's  devious  way, 
Whet  not  your  teeth  against  my  dear  one's  charms, 
But  oh,  let  faithful  Love  restore  him  to  iny  arms. 

What  madness  'tis  the  trackless  wilds  to  beat, 
And  wound  with  pointed  thorns  thy  tender  feet : 
Oh  !  why  to  savage  beast  thy  charms  oppose  ? 
With  toils  and  bloodhounds  why  their  haunts  enclose  ? 

Yet,  yet  with  thee,  Cerinthus,  might  I  rove, 
Thy  nets  I'd  trail  through  every  mountain  grove, 

*  The  unfermented  juice  of  the  grape. 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  157 

Would  track  the  bounding  stags  through  tainted  grounds, 

Beat  up  their  covers  and  unchain  thy  hounds. 

But  most  to  spread  our  artful  toils  I'd  joy, 

For,  while  we  watched  them,  I  could  clasp  my  boy  ! 

Oh,  without  me,  ne'er  taste  the  joys  of  love, 
But  a  chaste  hunter  in  my  absence  prove  ; 
And-  oh,  may  boars  the  wanton  fair  destroy, 
Who  would  Cerinthus  to  her  arms  decoy  ! 
Yet,  yet  I  dread  !  —  Be  sports  thy  father's  care  ; 
But  thou,  all  love  !  to  these  fond  arms  repair  ! 


CERINTHUS  TO  SULPICIA. 

"  NEVER  shall  woman's  smile  have  power 

To  win  me  from  those  gentle  charms  !  '  '  — 
Thus  swore  I  in  that  happy  h9ur 
When  L,ove  first  gave  them  to  my  arms. 

And  still  alone  thou  charm'  st  my  sight  — 
Still,  though  our  city  proudly  shine 

With  forms  and  faces  fair  and  bright, 
I  see  none  fair  or  bright  but  thine. 

Would  thou  wert  fair  for  only  me 

And  couldst  no  heart  but  mine  allure  !  — 

To  all  men  else  unpleasing  be, 
So  shall  I  feel  my  prize  secure. 

Oh,  love  like  mine  ne'er  wants  the  zest 
Of  others'  envy,  others'  praise  ; 

But,  in  its  silence  safely  blest, 
Broods  over  a  bliss  it  ne'er  betrays. 

Charm  of  my  life  !  by  whose  sweet  power 
All  cares  are  hushed,  all  ills  subdued  — 

My  light  in  even  the  darkest  hour, 
My  crowd  in  deepest  solitude  ! 

No  ;  not  though  Heaven  itself  sent  down 
Some  maid  of  more  than  heavenly  charms, 

With  bliss  undreamt  thy  bard  to  crown, 
Would  I  for  her  forsake  those  charms. 


158  LITERATURE  OF  ALL   XATIONS. 


PROPERTIUS. 

THE  social  and  domestic  relations  of  Propertius  bear  a 
striking  resemblance  to  those  of  Tibullus.  Both  were  of 
good  parentage ;  both  suffered  from  the  public  distribution  of 
land  occasioned  by  the  civil  war ;  both  derived  their  poetical 
inspiration  from  the  objects  of  their  love,  and  both  were  re- 
moved by  death  before  reaching  the  prime  of  life. 

Sextus  Aurelius  Propertius,  born  about  50  B.C.,  died  at 
the  age  of  thirty-five.  He  formed  one  of  the  brilliant  coterie 
of  Maecenas,  and  was  on  intimate  terms  with  Ovid  and  Virgil, 
but  his  literary  tastes  differed  somewhat  from  those  of  his 
colleagues.  He  was  still  more  attracted  by  the  complete 
mastery  of  form  shown  by  the  Alexandrian  school.  Besides 
the  erotic  elegies  addressed  to  his  mistress  Cynthia,  Proper- 
tius wrote  various  pieces  relating  to  the  early  history  of  Rome. 
He  was  a  man  of  extensive  learning,  thoroughly  versed  in 
Greek  mythology,  the  repeated  allusions  to  which  frequently 
interrupt  the  course  of  his  theme,  and  destroy  sequence  and 
coherency  of  thought.  He  makes  a  display  of  his  learning 
in  the  use  of  Greek  idioms,  by  which  his  style  is  rendered 
cramped,  forced,  and  often  inharmonious.  The  poetry  of 
Propertius  is  passionate,  sometimes  licentious,  but  it  does  not 
approach  that  of  Ovid  in  flagrant  indelicacy. 

THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE. 

HAD  he  not  hands  of  rare  device,  whoe'er 

First  painted  L/ove  in  figure  of  a  boy  ? 
He  saw  what  thoughtless  beings  lovers  were, 

Who  blessings  lose,  whilst  lightest  cares  employ, 
Nor  added  he  those  airy  wings  in  vain, 

And  bade  through  human  hearts  the  godhead  fly; 
For  we  are  tossed  upon  a  wavering  main ; 

Our  gale,  inconstant,  veers  around  the  sky. 
Nor,  without  cause,  he  grasps  those  barbed  darts, 

The  Cretan  quiver  o'er  his  shoulder  cast  ; 
Ere  we  suspect  a  foe,  he  strikes  our  hearts ; 

And  those  inflicted  woun4s  fpreyer  test, 


LATIN  LITERATURE.  159 

In  me  are  fixed  those  arrows — in  my  breast ; 

But,  sure,  his  wings  are  shorn,  the  boy  remains ; 
For  never  takes  he  flight,  nor  knows  he  rest ; 

Still,  still  I  feel  him  warring  through  my  veins. 
In  these  scorched  vitals  dost  thou  j  oy  to  dwell  ? 

Oh,  shame !  to  others  let  thine  arrows  flee ; 
Let  veins,  untouched,  with  all  thy  venom  swell ; 

Not  me  thou  torturest,  but  the  shade  of  me. 
Destroy  me, — who  shall  then  describe  the  fair  ? 

This  my  light  Muse  to  thee  high  glory  brings ; 
When  the  nymphs'  tapering  fingers,  flowing  hair, 

And  eyes  of  jet,  and  gliding  feet,  she  sings. 

LOVE'S  DREAM  REALIZED. 

NOT  in  his  Dardan  triumph  so  rejoiced  the  great  Atrides, 
When  fell  the  mighty  kingdom  of  Laomedon  of  yore , 

Not  so  Ulysses,  when  he  moored  his  wave-worn  raft  beside  his 
Beloved  Dulichian  island  home — his  weary  wanderings  o'er; 

As  I,  when  last  eve's  rosy  joys  I  ruminated  over  : 
To  me  another  eve  like  that  were  immortality  ! 

A  while  before  with  downcast  head  I  walked  a  pining  lover — 
More  useless  I  had  grown,  'twas  said,  than  water-tank  run  dry. 

No  more  my  darling  passes  me  with  silent  recognition, 
Nor  can  she  sit  unmoved  while  I  outpour  my  tender  vow. 

I  wish  that  I  had  sooner  realized  this  blest  condition  ; 
'Tis  pouring  living  water  on  a  dead  man's  ashes  now. 

In  vain  did  others  seek  my  love,  in  vain  they  called  upon  her, 
She  leaned  her  head  upon  my  breast,  was  kind  as  girl  could  be. 

Of  conquered  Parthians  talk  no  more,  I've  gained  a  nobler  honor, 
For  she'll  be  spoils,  and  leaders,  and  triumphal  car  to  me. 

Light  of  my  life !  say,  shall  my  bark  reach  shore  with  gear  be- 
fitting, 

Or,  dashed  amid  the  breakers,  with  her  cargo  run  aground  ? 
With  thee  it  lies ;  but  if,  perchance,  through  fault  of  my  com- 
mitting, 
Thou  giv'st  me  o'er,  before  thy  door  let  my  cold  corpse  be  found. 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE 

PERIOD  III.    A.D.  1150-1300. 


HE  wonderful  revival  of  Persian  literature  after 
the  Mohammedan  invasion  has  already  been 
treated.*  The  most  distinguished  writers  of 
this  era  were  the  epic  poet  Firdausi  and  the 
pessimist  Omar  Khayyam.  The  singers  of  the 
twelfth  century  devoted  themselves,  almost  indiscrim- 
inately, to  praising  the  princes  of  their  times.  The  chief 
panegyrist  was  Anwari,  originally  a  poor  student  in  the  town 
of  Tus.  The  Sultan  and  his  suite  happened  to  pass  near  the 
college  grounds  one  day.  One  of  his  attendants  being  more 
magnificently  mounted  and  gorgeously  appareled  than  the 
rest,  Anwari  asked  a  bystander  who  he  was.  On  being  told 
that  it  was  the  court  poet,  the  youth,  fired  with  ambition, 
prepared  a  poem,  which  was  presented  to  the  sovereign  the 
next  day.  The  Sultan,  finding  it  full  of  praise  of  himself, 
was  so  pleased  that  he  offered  the  young  man  a  position  at 
once,  which  was  accepted.  Anwari  attended  him  until  his 
death.  He  wrote  a  few  long  poems  and  some  simple  lyrics. 
The  greatest  romantic  poet  of  Persia  was  Nizami,  who  wrote 
five  works  known  as  "The  Five  Treasures  of  Nizami."  Sadi 
says  of  him  :  "  Gone  is  Nizami,  our  exquisite  pearl,  which 
Heaven,  in  its  kindness,  formed  of  the  purest  dew." 

The  thirteenth  century  has  been  called  the  mystical  and 
moral  age  of  Persian  poetry.  At  this  time  Genghis  Khan, 
the  Tartar  chief,  swept  over  Asia  like  a  whirlwind.  Bokhara, 


160 


*See  Volume  II.,  pp.  169-215. 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  161 

Samarcand,  and  Bagdad,  those  centres  of  Mohammedan  civili- 
zation, were  devastated,  their  colleges  and  libraries  utterly 
destroyed,  and  their  men  of  learning  driven  to  seek  safety 
elsewhere.  During  these  troubles  the  most  illustrious  of 
the  Seljuk  Turks  was  reigning  at  Iconium,  in  Asia  Minor. 
Alauddin  Kaikubad,  as  he  was  called,  was  well  known  as  a 
lover  and  patron  of  letters  ;  and  his  court  became  the  refuge 
of  scholars  from  all  the  Asiatic  nations.  The  brightest  orna- 
ment of  this  court  was  Jelaleddin  Rumi,  the  mystic  poet  and 
philosopher.  His  father  was  the  founder  of  a  college  in 
Iconium,  of  which  he,  himself,  afterwards  became  director. 
His  fame  rests  on  his  "Mesnavi,"  a  work  in  six  volumes, 
which  is  a  series  of  stories  with  moral  maxims. 

The  most  important  writer  of  the  third  period  was  Sadi, 
whose  "  Gulistan,"  or  Rose  Garden,  is  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar of  the  Persian  classics.  His  "  Bustan,"  or  Fruit  Garden, 
teaches  lessons  of  morality  and  prudence  in  the  form  of 
poetry.  Both  of  these  works  have  been  translated  into  Ger- 
man, French  and  English,  and  have  found  many  admirers. 
His  other  writings  are  of  less  merit. 

KHAKANI. 

KHAKANI  was  the  poetical  name  of  Efsal-ed-din  Hakaiki,  and  was 
derived  from  that  of  his  patron  Khakan  Manughir,  Prince  of  Shirvan. 
Having  absented  himself  from  court  without  permission,  he  was 
imprisoned  for  seven  months  in  a  fortress,  where  he  had  intercourse 
with  Christian  captives.  He  wrote  a  poem  in  favor  of  their  views,  yet 
he  remained  a  pious  Moslem  and  msde  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  He 
was  the  most  learned  of  the  lyric  poets  of  Persia.  He  died  at  Tabriz  in 
1 1 86  A.D. 

THE  UNKNOWN  BEAUTY. 

O  waving  cypress  !  cheek  of  rose  ! 

0  jasmine-breathing  bosom  !  say, 

Tell  me  each  charm  that  round  her  glows ; 

Who  are  ye  that  my  heart  betray ; 
Tyrant  unkind  !  to  whom  I  bow, 

0  life  destroyer ! — who  art  thou  ? 

1  saw  thy  form  of  waving  grace ! 

1  heard  thy  soft  and  gentle  sighs ; 

IV— II 


1 62  LITERATURE   OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

I  gazed  on  .that  enchanting  face, 

And  looked  in  thy  narcissus  eyes ; 
Oh  !  by  the  hopes  thy  smiles  allow, 
Bright  soul-inspirer ! — who  are  thou  ? 

Where'er  she  walks,  amidst  the  shades, 
Where  perfumed  hyacinths  unclose, 

Danger  her  ev'ry  glance  pervades — 
Her  bow  is  bent  on  friends  and  foes. 

Thy  rich  cheek  shames  the  rose — thy  brow 

Is  like  the  young  moon — who  art  thou? 

The  poet-slave  has  dared  to  drain 
Draughts  of  thy  beauty,  till  his  soul, 

Confused  and  lost  in  pleasing  pain, 
Is  fled  beyond  his  own  control. 

What  bliss  can  life  accord  me  now 

But  once  to  know  thee  ! — who  art  thou  ? 

NIZAMI. 

NIZAMI,  the  greatest  romantic  poet*  of  Persia,  was  born  in 
1114  A.D.  and  died  in  1203.  The  early  death  of  his  parents 
threw  a  gloom  over  his  life,  so  that  he  loved  solitude  and  med- 
itation. Gunja,  where  he  spent  most  of  his  days,  was  full  of 
Sunnites, — an  austere  sect,  orthodox  and  bigoted ;  and  the 
poet,  first  taking  his  tone  from  them,  wrote  in  a  didactic 
manner,  full  of  gloom  and  asceticism.  Becoming  a  Sufi  or 
mystic,  he  changed  his  entire  mode  of  thought  about  religion, 
art,  and  life,  and  ceasing  to  moralize  he  simply  depicted  the 
passions  and  struggles  of  humanity.  Nizami  was  the  favorite 
of  the  reigning  Atabeg,  from  whom  he  received  the  revenues 
of  two  villages  ;  but  he  haughtily  refused  to  remain  at  court, 
preferring  a  life  of  independence  and  isolation. 

His  love  songs  are  the  most  beautiful  in  the  Persian  tongue, 
and  his  great  poem  of  "  L,aili  and  Majnun"  is  unrivalled  in  its 
sorrowful  tenderness  and  purity.  Every  nation  has  its  favorite 
romance,  and  to  Persia  none  is  so  dear  as  that  of  Nizami. 
It  is  the  story  of  two  lovers,  the  maiden  beautiful  and  lowly- 
born,  the  youth  a  chieftain's  son.  They  are  parted  and  mourn 
each  other  with  a  very  madness  of  grief.  I,aili  is  wedded, 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  163 

in  spite  of  her  tears  and  protests,  to  one  who  woos  her  father 
•with  gold.  Her  husband  dies  unexpectedly.  L,aili  flies  to 
her  lover.  They  meet  and  embrace  with  an  ecstasy  of  joy, 
when  suddenly  Majnun  remembers  that  he  cannot  marry  a 
widow  according  to  Arab  law.  He  flies  from  L,aili,  and  she 
returns  to  her  rocky  home  and  dies  of  a  broken  heart.  Majnun 
is  allowed  to  weep  over  her  beautiful  corpse,  and  then  he  dies 
too ;  after  which,  let  us  hope,  the  lovers  meet  happily  in 
Paradise,  and  are  rewarded  for  their  devotion  and  sufferings. 
Before  the  composition  of  this  masterpiece  Nizami  had  written 
a  didactic  poem  called  "  The  Storehouse  of  Mysteries,"  and 
an  epic,  "Khosru  and  Shireen,"  founded  on  an  old  Persian 
story.  Afterwards  he  recited  in  heroic  verse  the  exploits  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  describing  him  not  only  as  conqueror  of 
the  world,  but  as  philosopher  and  prophet.  Finally  he  wrote 
a  book  of  romantic  tales  called  "The  Seven  Beauties." 

FERHAD  THE  SCULPTOR. 

THE  first  epic  of  Nizami  was  "Khosru  and  Shireen,"  which  relates 
the  love  story  of  the  King  of  Persia  and  the  beautiful  Princess  Shireen. 
Ferhad  was  an  eminent  sculptor  whose  passionate  love  for  the  same 
maiden  gave  the  monarch  vexation.  To  remove  him  from  his  court 
the  king  required  him  to  hew  a  channel  for  a  river  through  the  lofty 
mountain  of  Beysitoun,  and  to  decorate  it  with  sculpture.  He  prom- 
ised also  that  if  Ferhad  should  accomplish  this  stupendous  task,  he 
should  receive  as  his  bride  the  object  of  his  love.  The  enamored  artist 
accepted  the  work  on  this  condition.  It  is  related  that  as  he  struck  the 
rock,  he  constantly  invoked  the  name  of  Shireen. 

On  lofty  Beysitoun  the  lingering  sun 
Looks  down  on  ceaseless  labors,  long  begun ; 
The  mountain  trembles  to  the  echoing  sound 
Of  falling  rocks  that  from  her  sides  rebound. 
Each  day,  all  respite,  all  repose,  denied, 
Without  a  pause  the  thundering  strokes  are  plied  ; 
The  mist  of  night  around  the  summit  coils, 
But  still.  Ferhad,  the  lover-artist,  toils. 
And  still,  the  flashes  of  his  axe  between, 
He  sighs  to  every  wind,  "Alas,  Shireen  ! " 
A  hundred  arms  are  weak  one  block  to  move 
Of  thousands  moulded  by  the  hand  of  love 


164  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Into  fantastic  shapes  and  forms  of  grace, 

That  crowd  each  nook  of  that  majestic  place. 

The  piles  give  way,  the  rocky  peaks  divide, 

The  stream  comes  gushing  on,  a  foaming  tide, — 

A  mighty  work  for  ages  to  remain, 

The  token  of  his  passion  and  his  pain. 

As  flows  the  milky  flood  from  Allah's  throne, 

Rushes  the  torrent  from  the  yielding  stone. 

And,  sculptured  there,  amazed,  stern  Khosru  stands, 

And  frowning  sees  obeyed  his  harsh  commands : 

While  she,  the  fair  beloved,  with  being  rife, 

Awakes  from  glowing  marble  into  life. 

O  hapless  youth  ?     O  toil  repaid  by  woe ! 

A  king  thy  rival,  and  the  world  thy  foe. 

Will  she  wealth,  splendor,  pomp,  for  thee  resign, 

And  only  genius,  truth,  and  passion  thine  ? 

Around  the  pair,  lo !  chiselled  courtiers  wait, 

And  slaves  and  pages  grouped  in  solemn  state ; 

From  columns  imaged  wreaths  their  garlands  throw, 

And  fretted  roofs  with  stars  appear  to  glow : 

Fresh  leaves  and  blossoms  seem  around  to  spring, 

And  feathered  throngs  their  loves  seem  murmuring. 

The  hands  of  Peris  might  have  wrought  those  stems 

Where  dew-drops  hang  their  fragile  diadems, 

And  strings  of  pearl  and  sharp-cut  diamonds  shine, 

New  from  the  wave,  or  recent  from  the  mine. 

"Alas,  Shireen  !"  at  every  stroke  he  cries, — 

At  every  stroke  fresh  miracles  arise. 

"For  thee  my  life  one  ceaseless  toil  has  been ; 

Inspire  my  soul  anew, — alas,  Shireen  ! " 

Ferhad  achieved  his  task,  and  with  such  exquisite  skill  and  taste, 
that  the  most  expert  statuaries  and  polishers  from  every  part  of  the 
world,  coming  to  behold  his  works.'bit  the  finger  of  astonishment  and 
were  confounded  at  the  genius  of  that  distracted  lover.  Ferhad  was 
pausing,  weary,  at  the  completion  of  his  toil,  with  his  chisel  in  his 
hand,  when  his  treacherous  rival  sent  him  the  false  message  that 
Shireen  was  dead. 

He  heard  the  fatal  news, — no  word,  no  groan ; 
He  spoke  not,  moved  not,  stood  transfixed  to  stone. 
Then,  with  a  frenzied  start,  he  raised  on  high 
His  arms,  and  wildly  tossed  them  towards  the  sky ; 


COPYRIGHT,     1900 


THE  FATE  OF  FERHAD 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  165 

Far  in  the  wide  expanse  his  axe  he  flung, 

And  from  the  precipice  at  once  he  sprung. 

The  rocks,  the  sculptured  caves,  the  valleys  green, 

Sent  back  his  dying  cry, — "Alas,  Shireen  !" 

THE  EYE  OF  CHARITY. 

ONE  evening  Jesus  lingered  in  the  market-place, 
Teaching  the  people  parables  of  truth  and  grace, 
When  in  the  square  remote  a  crowd  was  seen  to  rise, 
And  stop  with  loathing  gestures  and  abhorring  cries. 

The  Master  and  his  meek  disciples  went  to  see 
What  cause  for  this  commotion  and  disgust  could  be, 
And  found  a  poor  dead  dog  beside  the  gutter  laid ; 
Revolting  sight !  at  which  each  face  its  hate  betrayed. 

One  held  his  nose,  one  shut  his  eyes,  one  turned  away ; 
And  all  among  themselves  began  aloud  to  say, — 
"  Detested  creature  !  he  pollutes  the  earth  and  air  !  " 
"  His  eyes  are  blear  !  "  "  His  ears  are  foul !  "  "  His  ribs  are 
bare!" 

"  In  his  torn  hide  there's  not  a  decent  shoe-string  left !  " 
"  No  doubt  the  execrable  cur  was  hung  for  theft !  " 
Then  Jesus  spake,  and  dropped  on  him  this  saving  wreath, — 
' '  Even  pearls  are  dark  before  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth  ! ' ' 

The  pelting  crowd  grew  silent  and  ashamed,  like  one 
Rebuked  by  sight  of  wisdom  higher  than  his  own  ; 
And  one  exclaimed,   ' '  No  creature  so  accursed  can  be, 
But  some  good  thing  in  him  a  loving  eye  will  see." 

THE  ORIENTAL  ALEXANDER. 

THE  "Alexander-Book"  is  the  latest  of  Nizami's  works  which 
has  been  brought  to  the  knowledge  of  Western  scholars.  The  follow- 
ing verses  show  how  the  character  of  the  mighty  conqueror  had  been 
transformed  by  Oriental  imagination. 

Some  entitle  him  Lord  of  the  Throne, 

Taker  of  kingdoms — nay  more,  Master  of  the  whole  world : 

Some,  regarding  the  Vizier  of  his  Court  [Aristotle], 

Inscribe  his  diploma  with  the  name  of  Sage ; 

Some,  for  his  purity  and  devotion  to  the  Faith, 

Give  him  admission  to  the  order  of  the  Prophets. 


166  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


THE  WORLD  BEYOND. 

ACCORDING  to  Nizami,  Alexander  the  Great  set  out  on  a  second 
expedition  through  the  world.  After  making  proper  arrangements  he 
proceeded  from  Macedonia  to  Alexandria,  thence  to  Jerusalem,  then  by 
way  of  Africa  to  Andalusia.  While  in  Africa  he  desired  to  reach  the 
unfound  sources  of  the  Nile.  After  a  long  march  over  mountain  and 
valley,  he  came  at  last  to  a  steeply  ascending  mountain,  in  color 
resembling  "  green  glass,"  from  which  flows  down  the  river  Nile.  Of 
the  people  sent  up  thither  not  one  came  back.  At  last  a  man  is 
despatched,  accompanied  by  his  son,  with  orders  that,  arrived  at  the 
summit,  he  should  write  what  he  had  seen,  and  throw  down  the  billet 
to  his  son,  who  is  to  wait  for  him  below.  The  son  returns  without  his 
father,  but  with  the  following  message  : 

He  gave  to  the  King  the  paper,  and  the  King  read  written 

thereon : 

"  From  the  toilsomeness  of  the  way, 
My  soul  fainted  within  me  from  terror, 
For  I  seemed  to  be  treading  the  road  to  Hell. 
The  path  was  contracted  to  a  hair's-breadth, 
And  whoever  trod  it  washed  his  hands  of  life. 
For  in  this  path,  which  was  slender  as  a  hair, 
There  appeared  no  means  of  again  coming  down. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  rocky  mound  of  the  summit, 
I  was  in  an  utter  strait  from  the  straitness  of  the  way. 
All  that  I  beheld  on  the  side  which  I  had  seen  tore  my 

heart  to  pieces, 

And  my  judgment  was  annihilated  by  its  perilous  aspect. 
But  on  the  other  side  the  way  was  without  a  blemish, 
Delight  upon  delight,  garden  upon  garden, 
Full  of  fruit,  and  verdure,  and  water,  and  roses ; 
The  whole  region  resounding  with  the  melody  of  birds, 
The  air  soft,  and  the  landscape  so  charming, 
That  you  might  say,  God  had  granted  its  every  wish. 
On  this  side  all  was  life  and  beauty, 
On  the  other  side  all  was  disturbance  and  ruin ; 
Here  was  Paradise,  there  the  semblance  of  Hell — 
Who  would  come  to  Hell  and  desert  Paradise  ? 
Think  of  that  desert  through  which  we  wended, 
Look  whence  we  came,  and  at  what  we  have  arrived ! 
Who  would  have  the  heart  from  this  lovely  spot 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  167 

Again  to  set  a  foot  in  that  intricate  track  ? 
Here  I  remain,  King,  and  bid  thee  adieu ; 
And  mayst  thou  be  happy  as  I  am  happy !  " 


JELALEDDIN   RUMI. 

SUFISM  appeared  among  the  Mohammedans  as  early  as 
the  ninth  century,  as  a  sort  of  reaction  against  the  formalism 
of  their  religion.  The  central  idea  of  this  system  is  that 
"  nothing  really  exists  except  God ;  that  the  human  soul  is 
an  emanation  from  His  essence  and  will  finally  be  restored  to 
Him."  The  doctrine  was  a  revival  of  the  principles  of  the 
sage  Zoroaster,  but  it  was  modified  by  the  effort  to  bring  it 
into  harmony  with  the  Koran,  now  supreme.  Persian  litera- 
ture is  full  of  an  ardent  natural  pantheism,  and  her  chief  poets, 
except  Sadi,  wrote  with  an  occult  and  mystic  significance. 
For  instance,  Hafiz  sang  of  women  and  wine,  but  his  admirers 
found  in  these  raptures  the  symbols  of  his  union  with  the 
Divine.  To  Western  intelligence  this  seems  exaggerated  and 
improbable ;  but  unquestionably  the  Persian  poets  did  often 
convey,  in  their  verse,  sacred  hidden  meanings,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  initiated.  This  may  be  called  their  esoteric  manner. 
For  the  exoteric,  they  as  unquestionably  wrote  that  which 
was,  on  the  face  of  it,  deeply  religious  and  significant. 

Six  of  the  seven  great  poets  who  are  called  "  The  Persian 
Pleiades  "  were  Sufis.  One  of  the  chief  of  these,  Jelaleddin, 
was  born  at  Balkh  in  1207  A.D.,  but  in  childhood  was  taken 
to  Asia  Minor,  where  he  succeeded  his  father  as  head  of  a 
college  in  Iconium.  Asia  Minor  was  then  and  is  still  called 
by  the  Mohammedans  Rum  (or  Roum),  as  having  been  part 
of  the  Roman  empire.  Jelaleddin,  from  his  residence  there, 
obtained  the  surname  Rumi,  "the  Roman. ' '  He  was  converted 
to  mysticism  by  a  wandering  Sufi  named  Shamsuddin,  who 
aroused  the  indignation  of  the  populace  against  himself  by 
his  aggressive  manner.  A  riot  ensued  in  which  Rumi's  son 
was  killed.  His  friend  and  teacher  was  afterwards  executed. 
In  memory  of  these  beloved  dead  the  poet  founded  an  order 
of  dervishes  famous  for  their  piety,  their  mourning,  and  their 
mystic  dances.  Those  latter  symbolize  the  circling  spheres 


1 68  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

and  the  inner  vibrations  of  the  Sufi's  love  for  God.  The 
order  still  exists,  in  cloisters,  throughout  the  Turkish  Empire; 
and  the  leadership  has  remained  in  Ruini's  family  over  six 
hundred  years.  Rumi  himself  is  worshipped  as  a  saint. 
His  great  masterpiece  is  the  "Mesnavi,"  or  "Spiritual  Math- 
nawi,"  a  collection  of  ethical  and  moral  precepts,  anecdotes, 
comments  on  verses  of  the  Koran,  and  sayings  of  the  pro- 
phets. Rumi  died  in  1273  A-D- 

THE  MERCHANT  AND  THE  PARROT. 

THERE  was  once  a  merchant,  who  had  a  parrot, 
A  parrot  fair  to  view,  confined  in  a  cage  ; 
And  when  the  merchant  prepared  for  a  journey, 
He  resolved  to  bend  his  way  towards  Hindustan. 
Every  servant  and  maiden  in  his  generosity 
He  asked,  what  present  he  should  bring  them  home, 
And  each  one  named  what  he  severally  wished, 
And  to  each  one  the  good  master  promised  his  desire. 
Then  he  said  to  the  parrot,  "  And  what  gift  wishest  thou, 
That  I  should  bring  to  thee  from  Hindustan  ?  ' ' 
The  parrot  replied,  ' '  When  thou  seest  the  parrots  there, 
Oh,  bid  them  know  of  my  condition. 
Tell  them,  '  A  parrot,  who  longs  for  your  company, 
Through  Heaven's  decree  is  confined  in  my  cage. 
He  sends  you  his  salutation,  and  demands  his  right, 
And  seeks  from  you  help  and  counsel. 
He  says,  '  Is  it  right  that  I  in  my  longings 
Should  pine  and  die  in  this  prison  through  separation? 
Is  it  right  that  I  should  be  here  fast  in  this  cage, 
While  you  dance  at  will  on  the  grass  and  the  trees  ? 
Is  this  the  fidelity  of  friends, 
I  here  in  a  prison,  and  you  in  a  grove  ? 
Oh  remember,  I  pray  you,  that  bower  of  ours, 
And  our  morning-draughts  in  the  olden  time ; 
Oh  remember  all  our  ancient  friendships, 
And  all  the  festive  da)^s  of  our  intercourse  ! ' ' 
The  merchant  received  its  message, 
The  salutation  which  he  was  to  bear  to  its  fellows ; 
And  when  he  came  to  the  borders  of  Hindustan, 
He  beheld  a  number  of  parrots  in  the  desert. 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  169 

He  stayed  his  horse,  and  he  lifted  his  voice, 

And  he  repeated  his  message,  and  deposited  his  trust ; 

And  one  of  those  parrots  suddenly  fluttered, 

And  fell  to  the  ground,  and  presently  died. 

Bitterly  did  the  merchant  repent  his  words ; 

"I  have  slain,"  he  cried,  "a  living  creature. 

Perchance  this  parrot  and  my  little  bird  were  close  of  kin, 

Their  bodies  perchance  were  two  and  their  souls  one. 

Why  did  I  this  ?  why  gave  I  the  message  ? 

I  have  consumed  a  helpless  victim  by  my  foolish  words ! 

My  tongue  is  as  flint,  and  my  lips  as  steel ; 

And  the  words  that  burst  from  them  are  sparks  of  fire. 

Strike  not  together  in  thy  folly  the  flint  and  steel, 

Whether  for  the  sake  of  kind  words  or  vain  boasting ; 

The  world  around  is  as  a  cotton-field  by  night ; 

In  the  midst  of  cotton,  how  shall  the  spark  do  no  harm  ?  " 

The  merchant  at  length  completed  his  traffic, 
And  he  returned  right  glad  to  his  home  once  more. 
To  every  servant  he  brought  a  present, 
To  every  maiden  he  gave  a  token  ; 
And  the  parrot  said,  "Where  is  my  present? 
Tell  all  that  thou  hast  said  and  seen  !  " 
He  answered,  ' '  I  repeated  thy  complaints 
To  that  company  of  parrots,  thy  old  companions, 
And  one  of  those  birds,  when  it  inhaled  the  breath  of  thy 

sorrow, 

Broke  its  heart,  and  fluttered,  and  died." 
And  when  the  parrot  heard  what  its  fellow  had  done, 
It  too  fluttered,  and  fell  down,  and  died. 
When  the  merchant  beheld  it  thus  fall, 
Up  he  sprang,  and  dashed  his  cap  to  the  ground. 
"  Oh,  alas  !  "  he  cried,  "my  sweet  and  pleasant  parrot, 
Companion  of  my  bosom  and  sharer  of  my  secrets ! 
Oh  alas  !  alas  !  and  again  alas  ! 
That  so  bright  a  moon  is  hidden  under  a  cloud  !  " 
After  this,  he  threw  its  body  out  of  the  cage ; 
And  lo  !  the  little  bird  flew  to  a  lofty  bough. 
The  merchant  stood  amazed  at  what  it  had  done  ; 
Utterly  bewildered  he  pondered  its  mystery. 
It  answered,  ' '  Yon  parrot  taught  me  by  its  action : 
'  Escape, '  it  told  me,  '  from  speech  and  articulate  voice, 
Since  it  was  thy  voice  that  brought  thee  into  prison ; ' 


170  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

And  to  prove  its  own  words  itself  did  die." 

It  then  gave  the  merchant  some  words  of  wise  counsel, 
And  at  last  bade  him  a  long  farewell. 
"  Farewell,  my  master,  thou  hast  done  me  a  kindness, 
Thou  hast  freed  me  from  the  bond  of  this  tyranny. ' 
Farewell,  my  master,  I  fly  towards  home ; 
Thou  shalt  one  day  be  free  like  me !  " 

THE  DESTINY  OF  MAN. 

SEEKS  thy  spirit  to  be  gifted 

With  a  deathless  life  ? 
Let  it  seek  to  be  uplifted 

O'er  earth's  storm  and  strife. 

Spurn  its  joys — its  ties  dissever ; 

Hopes  and  fears  divest  ; 
Thus  aspire  to  live  forever — 

Be  forever  blest ! 

Faith  and  doubt  leave  far  behind  thee ; 

Cease  to  love  or  hate ; 
Let  not  Time's  illusions  blind  thee; 

Thou  shalt  Time  outdate.  , 

Merge  thine  individual  being 

In  the  Eternal's  love ; 
All  this  sensuous  nature  fleeing 

For  pure  bliss  above. 

Earth  receives  the  seed  and  guards  it ; 

Trustfully  it  dies ; 
Then,  what  teeming  life  rewards  it 

For  self-sacrifice ! 

With  green  leaf  and  clustering  blossom 

Clad,  and  golden  fruit, 
See  it  from  earth's  cheerless  bosom 

Ever  sunward  shoot ! 

Thus,  when  self-abased,  Man's  spirit 

From  each  earthly  tie 
Rises  disenthralled  t'  inherit 

Immortality ! 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  171 


THE  FAIREST  LAND. 

"  Tell  me,  gentle  traveler,  tliou 

Who  hast  wandered  far  and  wide, 
Seen  the  sweetest  roses  blow, 

And  the  brightest  rivers  glide ; 
Say,  of  all  thine  eyes  have  seen, 
Which  the  fairest  land  has  been  ? ' ' 

"Lady,  shall  I  tell  thee  where, 
Nature  seems  most  blest  and  fair, 
Far  above  all  climes  beside  ? — 
'Tis  where  those  we  love  abide  : 
And  that  little  spot  is  best, 
Which  the  loved  one's  foot  hath  pressed. 

' '  Though  it  be  a  fairy  space, 
Wide  and  spreading  is  the  place ; 
Though  'twere  but  a  barren  mound, 
'Twould  become  enchanted  ground. 

"With  thee  yon  sandy  waste  would  seem 
The  margin  of  Al  Cawthar's  stream;* 
And  thou  canst  make  a  dungeon's  gloom 
A  bower  where  new-born  roses  bloom." 

THE  LOVER'S  DEATH. 

THIS  poem  and  the  next  are  further  specimens  of  the  compositions 
of  the  Persian  Sufis. 

A  lover  on  his  death-bed  lay,  and  o'er  his  face  the  while, 
Though  anguish  racked  his  wasted  frame,  there  swept  a  fitful 

smile : 

A  flush  his  sunken  cheek  o'erspread,  and  to  his  faded  eye 
Came  light  that  less  spoke  earthly  bliss  than  heaven-breathed 

ecstasy. 
And  one  that  weeping  o'er  him  bent,  and  watched  the  ebbing 

breath, 
Marvelled  what  thought  gave  mastery  o'er  that  dread  hour  of 

death. 

*  The  river  of  Paradise. 


172 


LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


"Ah,  when  the  fair,  adored  through  life,  lifts  up  at  length,"  he 

cried, 

' '  The  veil  that  sought  from  mortal  eye  immortal  charms  to  hide, 
'Tis  thus  true  lovers,  fevered  long  with  that  sweet  mystic  fire, 
Exulting  meet  the  L,oved  One's  gaze,  and  in  that  glance  expire." 

THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  HEART. 

BEATS  there  a  heart  within  that  breast  of  thine  ? 

Then  compass  reverently  its  sacred  shrine : 

For  the  true  spiritual  Caaba  is  the  heart, 

And  no  proud  pile  of  perishable  art. 

When  God  ordained  the  pilgrim  rite,  that  sign 

Was  meant  to  lead  thy  thought  to  things  divine. 

A  thousand  times  he  treads  that  round  in  vain 

Who  e'en  one  human  heart  would  idly  pain. 

I,eave  wealth  behind  ;  bring  God  thy  heart, — best  light 

To  guide  thy  wavering  steps  through  life's  dark  night. 

God  spurns  the  riches  of  a  thousand  coffers, 

And  says,  ' '  My  chosen  is  he  his  heart  who  offers. 

Nor  gold  nor  silver  seek  I,  but  above 

All  gifts  the  heart,  and  buy  it  with  my  love ; 

Yea,  one  sad  contrite  heart,  which  men  despise, 

More  than  my  throne  and  fixed  decree  I  prize." 

Then  think  not  lowly  of  thy  heart,  though  lowly, 

For  holy  is  it,  and  there  dwells  the  Holy. 

God's  presence-chamber  is  the  human  breast  ; 

Ah,  happy  he  whose  heart  holds  such  a  guest ! 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE. 


173 


SADI. 

SADI  has  been  for  over 
six  centuries  the  proverbial 
philosopher  of  Persia.  He 
was  born  at  Shiraz  about 
1184  A.D.,  educated  in  a 
college  in  Bagdad,  and  re- 
mained there  as  one  of  the 
instructors  until  he  was  forty 
years  old.  When  Genghis 
Khan  conquered  Bagdad, 
Sadi  was  obliged  to  flee.  In 
the  course  of  his  long  life 
he  travelled  through  Bar- 
bary,  Abyssinia,  Bgypt, 
Syria,  Palestine,  Armenia, 
Asia  Minor  and  parts  of 
Europe  and  India.  While 
in  Damascus  he  wandered 
into  Palestine  and  was  made 
captive  by  the  Crusaders,  who  forced  him  to  work  on  their 
fortifications.  Being  recognized  by  a  chief  of  Aleppo,  he 
was  restored  and  carried  to  that  city,  where  he  made  his  home 
in  the  house  of  his  benefactor.  The  chief  had  a  daughter 
who  fell  in  love  with  the  elderly  poet,  and,  at  last,  succeeded 
in  marrying  him.  She  was  beautiful,  but  a  shrew,  and  the 
union  was  unhappy.  As  Sadi  had  been  wretched  in  a  former 
marriage,  his  prejudice  against  women  is  freely  expressed  in 
his  writings.  "  Take  your  wife's  opinion  and  act  opposite  to 
it,"  is  one  of  his  sayings  ;  another  is  :  "  Choose  a  fresh  wife 
every  spring  or  New  Year's  day  ;  for  the  almanac  of  last  year 
is  good  for  nothing."  The  poet's  name  was  originally  Mus- 
harrif-uddin,  but  he  adopted  that  of  Sadi  in  compliment  to 
his  first  patron,  the  Sultan  Sad  ben  Zangi. 

Sadi,  in  common  with  the  best  Persian  poets,  had  a  deep 
love  and  reverence  for  Jesus,  with  a  belief  in  his  power  of 
working  miracles ;  and  when  in  Damascus  he  prayed  at  the 


174  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

tomb  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  poet  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  Ruini,  and  his  daughter  was  married  to  Hafiz. 
Sadi  lived  to  be  over  a  hundred,  some  say  one  hundred  and 
twenty  years  of  age.  He  died  in  Shiraz,  where  he  was  born, 
having  remained  in  hermit-like  seclusion  over  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  He  was  nearly  always  poor,  but  was  honored  and 
beloved  by  all  men,  from  the  reigning  sultan  to  the  humblest 
water-carrier. 

The  poet's  chief  works  are  the  "Gulistan"  (The  Rose 
Garden),  and  "Bustan"  (The  Fruit  Garden).  The  first  is 
a  collection  of  one  hundred  and  eighty-eight  short  stories 
in  prose  mingled  with  verse.  Bustan  contains  ten  chapters 
of  poetic  fable,  written  to  inculcate  morality  and  wisdom. 
Sadi's  native  sense  and  eloquence,  his  liberal  education,  his 
prolonged  travels,  his  strange  association  with  every  sort  of 
character  in  all  the  countries  through  which  he  passed ;  the 
extremes  of  his  life — the  honored  scholar  of  Bagdad,  the 
slave  of  Palestine,  and  the  sage  of  Shiraz,  companion  of 
princes — all  this  garnered  wisdom  and  experience  give  to  his 
works  an  unrivalled  value  among  the  Persian  classics.  In 
many  parts  of  the  East  a  man  is  not  considered  respectable 
who  does  not  know  by  heart  much  that  Sadi  has  written. 
He  is  expected  to  use  this  knowledge  for  the  betterment  of 
his  own  life.  Sadi  is  wise,  witty,  moral,  and  sarcastic ;  his 
poems  abound  more  in  practical  wisdom  than  in  enthusiasm 
and  spirituality.  One  of  his  finer  proverbs  is : 

' '  Oh,  square  thyself  for  use.     A  stone  that  may 
Fit  in  the  wall  is  not  left  in  the  way." 

Sadi's  "Divan,"  or  collection  of  lyrical  poems,  is  inferior 
to  the  songs  of  Hafiz  and  to  the  hymns  of  Rumi,  yet  has  an 
attraction  of  its  own. 

PROEM  TO  THE  GULISTAN. 

ONE  night  I  was  reflecting  on  times  gone  by,  and  regard- 
ing my  wasted  life,  and  I  pierced  the  stony  mansion  of  my 
heart  with  the  diamond  of  my  tears,  and  read  these  verses, 
appropriate  to  my  state  : 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  175 

One  breath  of  life  each  moment  flies, 

A  small  remainder  meets  my  eyes. 

Sleeper,  whose  fifty  years  are  gone, 

Be  these  five  days  at  least  thy  own. 

Shame  on  the  dull,  departed  dead, 

Whose  task  is  left  unfinished. 

In  vain  for  them  the  drum  was  beat, 

Which  warns  us  of  man's  last  retreat. 

Sweet  sleep  upon  the  parting-day 

Holds  back  the  traveller  from  the  way. 

Each  comer  a  new  house  erects, 

Departs — the  house  its  lord  rejects ; 

The  next  one  forms  the  same  conceit, 

This  mansion  none  shall  e'er  complete. 

Hold  not  as  friend  this  comrade  light, 

With  one  so  false  no  friendship  plight. 

Since  good  and  bad  alike  must  fall, 

He's  best  who  bears  away  the  ball. 

Send  to  the  tomb  an  ample  store ; 

None  will  it  bring — then  send  before. 
L,ife  is  like  snow  in  July's  sun, 
Little  remains ;  yet  there  is  one 
To  boast  himself  and  vaunt  thereon. 

With  empty  hand  hast  thou  sought  the  mart  ? 

I  fear  thou  wilt  with  thy  turban  part. 

Who  eat  their  corn  while  yet  'tis  green, 

At  the  true  harvest  can  but  glean. 

To  Sadi's  counsel  let  thy  soul  give  heed ; 

There  is  the  way — be  manful  and  proceed. 

After  deliberating  on  this  subject,  I  thought  it  advisable 
that 'I  should  take  my  seat  in  retirement,  and  wash  the  tablet 
of  my  memory  from  vain  words,  nor  speak  idly  in  future. 

Better  who  sits  in  nooks,  deaf,  speechless,  idle, 
Than  he  who  knows  not  his  own  tongue  to  bridle. 

At  length  one  of  my  friends,  who  was  my  comrade  in  the 
camel-litter  and  my  closet-companion,  entered  my  door, 
according  to  old  custom.  Notwithstanding  all  the  cheerful- 
ness and  hilarity  which  he  displayed,  and  his  spreading  out 
trie  carpet  of  affection,  I  returned  him  no  answer,  nor  lifted 


1 76  LITERATURE  OF  ALL,  NATIONS. 

up  my  head  from  the  knee  of  devotion.     He  was  pained,  and 
looking  toward  me  said : 

Now  that  the  power  of  utterance  is  thine, 
Speak,  O  my  brother  !  kindly,  happily, 

To-morrow's  message  bids  thee  life  resign ; 
Then  art  thou  silent  of  necessity. 

One  of  those  who  were  about  me  informed  him  regarding 
this  circumstance,  saying :  Sadi  has  made  a  resolution  and 
fixed  determination  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  world  as 
a  devotee,  and  embrace  silence.  If  thou  canst  not,  take  thy 
way  and  choose  the  path  of  retreat.  He  replied :  By  the 
glory  of  the  Highest  and  by  our  ancient  friendship  !  I  will 
not  breathe  nor  stir  a  step  until  he  hath  spoken  according  to 
his  wonted  custom  and  his  usual  manner;  for  to  distress 
friends  is  folly  ;  but  the  dispensing  with  an  oath  is  easy.  It 
is  contrary  to  rational  procedure,  and  opposed  to  the  opinion 
of  sages,  that  the  two-edged  sword  of  Ali  should  remain  in 
its  scabbard,  or  the  tongue  of  Sadi  be  silent  in  his  mouth. 

What  is  the  tongue  in  the  mouth  of  mortals  ?  say, 

'Tis  but  the  key  that  opens  wisdom's  door; 
While  that  is  closed,  who  may  conjecture,  pray, 

If  thou  sell 'st  jewels  or  the  pedlar's  store? 
Silence  is  mannerly — so  deem  the  wise, 

But  in  the  fitting  time  use  language  free ; 
Blindness  of  judgment  just  in  two  things  lies, 

To  speak  unwished,  or  speak  unseasonably. 

In  brief,  I  had  not  the  power  to  refrain  from  conversing 
with  him  ;  and  I  thought  it  uncourteous  to  avert  my  face 
from  conference  with  him  ;  for  he  was  an  agreeable  compan- 
ion and  a  sincere  friend. 

When  thou  contendest  choose  an  enemy 

Whom  thou  mayst  vanquish  or  whom  thou  canst  fly. 

By  the  mandate  of  necessity,  I  spoke  as  we  went  out  for 
recreation,  it 'being  the  season  of  Spring,  when  the  asperity 
of  Winter  was  mitigated,  and  the  time  of  the  rose's  rich  dis- 
play had  arrived. 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  177 

Vestments  green  upon  the  trees, 

Like  the  costly  garments  seeming, 
Which  at  Id's  festivities 

Rich  men  wear,  all  gayly  gleaming. 

'Twas  the  first  day  of  April,  the  second  mouth  of  the  Spring; 
From  the  pulpits  of  the  branches  slight- wreathed  the  bulbuls  sing. 
The  red,  red  branches  were  begemmed  with  pearls  of  glistening 

dew, 
Like  moisture  on  an  angry  beauty's  cheek — a  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

So  time  passed,  till  one  night  it  happened  that  I  was  walk- 
ing at  a  late  hour  in  a  flower-garden  with  one  of  my  friends. 
The  spot  was  blithe  and  pleasing,  and  the  trees  intertwined 
there  charmingly.  You  would  have  said  that  fragments  of 
enamel  were  sprinkled  on  the  ground,  and  that  the  necklace 
of  the  Pleiades  was  suspended  from  the  vines  that  grew  there. 

A  garden  where  the  murmurous  rill  was  heard 
While  from  the  hills  sang  each  melodious  bird ; 
That,  with  the  many-colored  tulip  bright, 
These  with  their  various  fruits  the  eye  delight. 
The  whispering  breeze  beneath  the  branches'  shade, 
Of  blending  flowers  a  motley  carpet  made. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  inclination  to  return  prevailed 
over  our  wish  to  stay,  I  saw  that  he  had  gathered  his  lap  full 
of  roses  and  fragrant  herbs  and  sweet-basil,  with  which  he 
was  setting  out  for  the  city.  I  said :  To  the  rose  of  the  flower- 
garden,  as  you  know,  is  no  continuance ;  nor  is  there  faith  in 
the  promise  of  the  rose-garden ;  and  the  sages  have  said  that 
we  should  not  fix  our  affections  on  that  which  has  no  endur- 
ance. He  said :  What,  then  is  my  course  ?  I  replied :  For 
the  recreation  of  the  beholders  and  the  gratification  of  those 
who  are  present,  I  am  able  to  compose  a  book,  the  Garden  of 
Roses,  whose  leaves  the  rude  hands  of  Autumn  cannot  affect, 
and  the  blitheness  of  whose  Spring  the  revolutions  of  time 
cannot  change  into  the  disorder  of  the  waning  year. 

What  use  to  thee  that  flower-vase  of  thine  ? 

Thou  wouldst  have  rose-leaves ;  take,  then,  rather  mine, 

Those  roses  but  five  days  or  six  will  bloom  ; 

This  Garden  ne'er  will  yield  to  Winter's  gloom. 

IV— 12 


178  UTERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

As  soon  as  I  had  pronounced  these  words  he  cast  the  flowers 
from  his  lap,  and  took  hold  of  the  skirt  of  rny  garment,  say- 
ing :  When  the  generous  promise,  they  perform. — It  befell  that 
in  a  few  days  a  chapter  or  two  were  entered  in  my  note-book 
on  the  Advantages  of  Study  and  the  Rules  of  Conversation, 
in  a  style  that  may  be  useful  to  augment  the  eloquence  of  tale- 
writers.  In  short,  the  rose  of  the  flower-garden  still  con- 
tinued to  bloom  till  the  book  of  the  Rose-Garden  *  was 
finished.  It  will,  however,  be  really  perfected  when  it  is 
approved  and  condescendingly  perused  at  the  Court  of  the 
Asylum  of  the  World,  the  Shadow  of  the  Creator,  and  the 
Light  of  the  Bounty  of  the  All-powerful,  the  Treasury  of  the 
Ages,  the  Retreat  of  the  True  Religion,  the  Aided  by  Heaven, 
the  Victorious  Arm  of  the  Empire,  the  Lamp  of  excelling 
Faith,  the  Beauty  of  Mankind,  the  Glory  of  Islam,  Sad,  the 
Son  of  the  Most  Puissant  King  of  Kings,  Master  of  attend- 
ing Nations,  Lord  of  the  Kings  of  Arabia  and  Persia,  Sovereign 
of  the  Land  and  the  Sea,  Heir  to  the  throne  of  Sulaiman, 
Atabak  the  Great,  Muzaffu'd-din  Abu-bakr-bin-Sad-bin-Zangi. 
May  God  Most  High  perpetuate  the  good  fortune  of  both, 
and  prosper  all  their  righteous  undertakings. 

THE  KING'S  GIFT  TO  THE  DERVISH. 

I  HEARD  of  a  king  who  had  spent  the  night  in  jollity,  and 
when  he  was  completely  intoxicated  he  said,  "  I  have  never 
in  my  life  experienced  a  more  pleasant  moment  than  the  pre- 
sent, for  I  have  no  thoughts  about  good  or  evil,  and  am  not 
plagued  with  any  one."  A  naked  Dervish,  who  had  been 
sleeping  without  in  the  cold,  said,  "O  king,  there  is  none 
equal  to  thee  in  power.  I  grant  that  you  have  no  sorrow  of 
your  own;  but  what  then,  hast  thou  no  concern  about  us?" 
The  king  was  pleased  at  this  speech  and  threw  out  of  the 
window  a  bag  of  a  thousand  dinars,  and  said,  ' '  O  Dervish, 
hold  out  your  skirt.' '  He  answered,  ' '  Whence  shall  I  pro- 
duce a  skirt,  who  have  not  a  garment?" 

The  king  the  more  pitied  his  weak  estate,  and  in  addition 
to  the  money,  sent  him  a  dress.  The  Dervish,  having  con- 
sumed the  whole  sum  in  a  short  time,  came  again.  Riches 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  179 

remain  not  in  the  hand  of  the  pious,  neither  patience  in  the 
heart  of  a  lover,  nor  water  in  a  sieve.  At  a  time  when  the 
king  had  no  care  about  him  they  related  his  case.  He  was 
angry,  and  turned  away  his  face  from  him ;  and  on  this  point 
men  of  wisdom  and  experience  have  observed  that  we  ought 
to  guard  against  the  fury  and  rage  of  kings,  for  frequently 
their  thoughts  are  engrossed  by  important  affairs  of  state,  and 
they  cannot  endure  interruption  from  the  vulgar.  Whosoever 
watches  not  a  fit  opportunity  must  expect  nothing  from  the 
king's  favor.  Till  you  perceive  a  convenient  time  for  con- 
versing, lose  not  your  own  consequence  by  talking  to  no  pur- 
pose. The  king  said,  "Drive  away  this  insolent,  extravagant 
fellow,  who  has  dissipated  such  an  immense  sum  in  so  short  a 
time ;  since  the  gift  of  charity  is  designed  to  afford  a  mouth- 
ful for  the  poor,  and  not  to  feast  the  fraternity  of  devils.  The 
blockhead  who  burns  a  camphor  candle  in  the  daytime  you 
will  soon  see  without  oil  in  his  lamp  at  night."  One  of  the 
viziers,  a  good  counsellor,  said,  ' '  O  king,  it  seems  expedient 
that  stated  allowances  should  be  settled  for  people  of  this  class, 
separately,  for  their  maintenance,  that  they  may  not  live  extra- 
vagantly ;  but  what  you  commanded  in  displeasure,  to  exclude 
them  altogether,  is  repugnant  to  the  principles  of  true  gener- 
osity,— to  fill  one  with  hopes  through  kindness,  and  then  to 
destroy  him  with  despair ;  a  monarch  cannot  admit  people 
into  his  presence,  and,  when  the  door  of  liberality  is  open, 
then  shut  it  upon  them  with  violence.  No  one  seeth  the 
thirsty  pilgrims  on  the  seashore  ;  wherever  there  is  a  spring 
of  sweet  water,  men,  birds  and  ants  flock  together." 

THE  WRESTLERS. 

A  PERSON  had  arrived  at  the  head  of  his  profession  in  the 
art  of  wrestling;  he  knew  three  hundred  and  sixty  capital 
sleights  in  this  art,  and  every  day  exhibited  something  new  ; 
but  having  a  sincere  regard  for  a  beautiful  youth,  one  of  his 
scholars,  he  taught  him  three  hundred  and  fifty-nine  sleights, 
reserving,  however,  one  sleight  to  himself.  The  youth  ex- 
celled so  much  in  skill  and  in  strength  that  no  one  was  able  to 
cope  with  him.  He  at  length  boasted  before  the  Sultan  that 


l8o  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

the  superiority  which  he  allowed  his  master  to  maintain  over 
him  was  out  of  respect  to  his  years,  and  the  consideration  of 
having  been  his  instructor  ;  for  otherwise  he  was  not  inferior 
in  strength,  and  was  his  equal  in  point  of  skill. 

The  king  did  not  approve  of  this  disrespectful  conduct, 
and  commanded  that  there  should  be  a  trial  of  skill.  An 
extensive  ground  was  appointed  for  the  occasion.  The 
ministers  of  state  and  other  grandees  of  the  court  were  in 
attendance.  The  youth,  like  a  lustful  elephant,  entered  with 
a  blow  that  would  have  removed  from  its  base  a  mountain  of 
iron.  The  master,  being  sensible  that  the  youth  was  his 
superior  in  strength,  attacked  with  the  sleight  which  he  had 
kept  to  himself.  The  youth  not  being  able  to  repel  it,  the 
master  with  both  hands  lifted  him  from  the  ground,  and 
raising  him  over  his  head,  flung  him  on  the  earth.  The  mul- 
titude shouted. 

The  king  commanded  that  a  dress  and  a  reward  in  money 
should  be  bestowed  on  the  master,  and  reproved  and  derided 
the  youth  for  having  presumed  to  put  himself  in  competition 
with  his  benefactor,  and  for  having  failed  in  the  attempt.  He 
said,  "O  king,  my  master  did  not  gain  the  victory  over  me 
through  strength  or  skill  ;  but  there  remained  a  small  part 
in  the  art  of  wrestling  which  he  had  withheld  from  me,  and 
by  that  small  feint  he  got  the  better  of  me.''  The  master 
observed,  "  I  reserved  it  for  such  an  occasion  as  the  present, 
the  sages  having  said,  '  Put  not  yourself  so  much  in  the  power 
of  your  friend  that,  if  he  should  be  disposed  to  be  inimical,  tie 
may  be  able  to  effect  his  purpose.'  Have  you  not  heard  what 
was  said  by  a  person  who  had  suffered  injury  from  one  whom 
he  had  educated  ?  Either  there  never  was  any  gratitude  in  the 
world,  or  else  no  one  at  this  time  practises  it.  I  never  taught 
any  one  the  art  of  archery,  who  in  the  end  did  not  make  a 
butt  of  me." 

THE  JUDGE'S  TRANSGRESSION. 

THEY  tell  a  story  of  a  Cazy  [judge]  of  Hamadan,  that  he 
was  enamored  with  a  farrier's  beautiful  daughter  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  his  heart  was  inflamed  by  his  passion  like  a  horse- 
shoe red  hot  in  a  forge.  For  a  long  time  he  suffered  great 


PERSIAN  I,ITERATURE.  I8l 

inquietude,  running  about  after  her  in  the  manner  which  has 
been  described  :  ''  That  stately  cypress  coming  into  my  sight 
has  captivated  my  heart  and  deprived  me  of  my  strength,  so 
that  I  lie  prostrate  at  her  feet.  Those  mischievous  eyes  drew 
my  heart  into  the  snare.  If  you  wish  to  preserve  your  heart, 
shut  your  eyes.  I  cannot  by  any  means  get  her  out  of  my 
thought :  I  am  the  snake  with  the  bruised  head  ;  I  cannot  turn 
myself."  I  have  heard  that  she  met  the  Cazy  in  the  street,  and 
something  having  reached  her  ears  concerning  him,  she  was 
displeased  beyond  measure,  and  abused  and  reproached  him 
without  mercy,  flung  a  stone,  and  did  everything  to  disgrace 
him.  The  Cazy  said  to  a  respectable  man  of  learning  who 
was  in  his  company  :  "  Behold  that  beauteous  girl,  how  rude 
she  is !  behold  her  arched  eyebrow,  what  a  sweet  frown  it 
exhibits  !  In  Arabic  they  say  that  a  blow  from  the  hand  of 
her  we  love  is  as  sweet  as  raisins.  To  receive  a  blow  on  the 
mouth  from  her  hand  is  preferable  to  eating  bread  from  one's 
own  hand. ' '  Then  again  she  tempered  her  severity  with  a 
smile  of  beneficence,  as  kings  sometimes  speak  with  hostility 
when  they  inwardly  desire  peace. 

Unripe  grapes  are  sour,  but  keep  them  a  day  or  two  and 
they  will  become  sweet.  The  Cazy  having  said  thus  repaired 
to  his  court.  Some  well-disposed  persons  who  were  in  his 
service  made  obeisance,  and  said  :  u  That  with  permission  they 
would  present  a  matter  to  him,  although  it  might  be  deemed 
unpolite,  as  the  Sages  have  said,  It  is  not  allowable  to  argue 
on  every  subject :  it  is  criminal  to  describe  the  faults  of  a  great 
personage  ;  but  that  in  consideration  of  the  kindness  which  his 
servants  had  experienced  from  him,  not  to  present  what  to 
theiii  appears  advisable,  is  a  species  of  treachery.  The  laws 
•of  rectitude  require  that  you  should  conquer  this  inclination, 
and  not  give  way  to  unlawful  desires,  for  the  office  of  Cazy  is 
a  high  dignity,  which  ought  not  to  be  polluted  with  a  crime. 
You  are  acquainted  with  your  mistress's  character  and  have 
heard  her  conversation.  She  who  has  lost  her  reputation, 
what  cares  she  for  the  character  of  another?  It  has  frequently 
happened  that  a  good  name  acquired  in  fifty  years  has  been 
lost  by  a  single  imprudence. ' ' 

The  Cazy  approved  the  admonition  of  his  cordial  friends, 


1 82  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

praised  their  understanding  and  fidelity,  and  said:  "The 
advice  which  my  friends  have  given  in  regard  to  my  situation 
is  perfectly  right,  and  their  arguments  are  unanswerable. 
Of  a  truth,  if  friendship  was  to  be  lost  on  our  giving  advice, 
then  the  just  might  be  accused  of  falsehood.  Reprehend  me 
as  much  as  you  please,  but  you  cannot  wash  the  blackamoor 
white."  Having  said  thus,  he  sent  people  to  inquire  how 
she  did,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  money,  according  to  the 
saying,  "  He  who  has  money  in  the  scales  has  strength  in  his 
arms  ;  and  he  who  has  not  the  command  of  money  is  destitute 
of  friends  in  the  world.  Whosoever  sees  money  lowers  his 
head  like  the  beam  of  the  scales,  which  stoops  although  it  be 
made  of  iron." 

To  be  brief,  one  night  he  obtained  a  meeting  in  private, 
and  the  superintendent  of  the  police  was  immediately  informed 
of  the  circumstance  that  the  Cazy  passed  the  whole  night  in 
drinking  wine  and  fondling  his  mistress.  He  was  too  happy 
to  sleep,  and  was  singing,  ' '  That  the  cock  had  not  crowed 
that  night  at  the  usual  hour."  The  lovers  were  not  yet  satis- 
fied with  each  other's  company  ;  the  cheeks  of  the  mistress  were 
shining  between  her  curling  ringlets  like  the  ivory  ball  in  the 
ebony  bat  in  the  game  of  Chowgong.  In  that  instant,  when 
the  eye  of  enmity  is  asleep,  be  still  upon  the  watch,  lest 
some  mischance  befall  you ;  until  you  hear  the  muezzin 
proclaiming  the  hour  of  prayer,  or  the  sound  of  the  kettle- 
drum from  the  gate  of  the  police  of  Atabuk,  it  would  be  fool- 
ishness to  cease  kissing  at  the  crowing  of  the  foolish  cock. 
The  Cazy  was  in  this  situation  when  one  of  his  servants  en- 
tering, said,  "Why  are  you  sitting  thus?  Arise,  and  run  as 
fast  as  your  feet  can  carry  you,  for  your  enemies  have  laid  a 
snare  for  you  ;  nay,  they  have  said  the  truth.  But  whilst  this 
fire  of  strife  is  yet  but  a  spark,  extinguish  it  with  the  water 
of  good  management ;  for  it  may  happen  that  to  morrow,  when 
it  breaks  out  into  a  flame  it  will  spread  throughout  the 
world.' '  The  Cazy,  smiling,  looked  on  the  ground,  and  said : 
"If  the  lion  has  his  paw  on  the  game,  what  signifies  it  if 
the  dog  should  come?  Turn  your  face  towards  your  mistress, 
and  let  your  rival  bite  the  back  of  his  hand." 

That  very  night  they  carried  intelligence  to  the  king  of 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  183 

the  wickedness  which  had  been  committed  in  his  dominions, 
and  begged  to  know  his  commands.  He  answered:  "I  be- 
lieve the  Cazy  to  be  the  most  learned  man  of  the  age  ;  and  it 
is  possible  that  this  may  be  only  a  plot  of  his  enemies  to  injure 
him.  I  will  not  give  credit  to  this  story  without  I  see  proofs 
with  mine  own  eyes  ;  for  the  Sages  have  said,  He  who  quickly 
lays  hold  of  the  sword  in  his  anger,  will  gnaw  the  back  of  his 
hand  through  sorrow."  I  heard  that  at  the  dawn  of  day,  the 
king  with  some  of  his  principal  courtiers  came  to  the  Cazy's 
bed-chamber.  He  saw  the  candle  burning  and  the  mistress  sit- 
ting down,  with  the  wine  spilt  and  the  glass  broken,  and  the 
Cazy  stupefied  between  sleep  and  intoxication,  lost  to  all  sense 
of  his  existence.  The  king  kindly  waked  him,  and  said,  "  Get 
up,  for  the  sun  is  risen."  The  Cazy,  perceiving  him,  asked, 
"From  what  quarter  has  the  sun  risen?"  The  king  an- 
swered, "From  the  east"  The  Cazy  replied,  "God  be 
praised  !  then  the  door  of  repentance  is  still  open,  according 
to  the  tradition,  The  gate  of  repentance  shall  not  be  shut 
against  the  servants  of  God  until  the  sun  shall  rise  in  the 
west;"  adding,  "Now  I  ask  pardon  of  God,  and  vow  to  Him 
that  I  will  repent.  These  two  things  have  led  me  unto  sin, 
— ill  fortune  and  a  weak  understanding.  If  you  seize  me,  I 
deserve  it ;  but  if  you  pardon  me,  forgiveness  is  better  than 
vengeance. ' ' 

The  king  said :  ' '  Repentance  can  now  avail  nothing,  as  you 
know  that  you  are  about  to  suffer  death.  What  good  is  there 
in  a  thief's  repentance,  when  he  has  not  the  power  of  throw- 
ing a  rope  into  the  upper  story  ?  Tell  him  who  is  tall  not  to 
pluck  the  fruit,  for  he  of  low  stature  cannot  extend  his  arm  to 
the  branch.  To  you  who  have  been  convicted  of  such  wick- 
edness there  can  be  no  hopes  of  escape. ' '  The  king,  having 
said  thus,  ordered  the  officers  of  justice  to  take  charge  of  him. 
The  Cazy  said,  "I  have  yet  one  word  to  speak  to  your  Ma- 
jesty." He  asked,  "What  is  it?"  He  replied,  "As  long  as 
I  labor  under  your  displeasure,  think  not  that  I  will  let  go  the 
skirt  of  your  garment.  Although  the  crime  which  I  have 
committed  may  be  unpardonable,  still  I  entertain  some  hopes 
from  your  clemency. "  The  king  said,  "You  have  spoken 
with  admirable  wit,  but  it  is  contrary  to  reason  and  to  law 


1 84  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

that  your  -wisdom  and  eloquence  should  rescue  you  from  the 
hand  of  justice.  To  me  it  seems  advisable  that  you  should 
be  flung  headlong  from  the  top  of  the  castle  to  the  earth,  as 
an  example  for  others. ' '  He  replied,  ' '  O  monarch  of  the 
universe,  I  have  been  fostered  in  your  family,  and  am  not 
singular  in  the  commission  of  such  crimes ;  therefore  I  be- 
seech you  to  precipitate  some  one  else,  in  order  that  I  may 
benefit  by  the  example."  The  king  laughed  at  his  speech, 
and  spared  his  life,  and  said  to  his  enemies,  "  All  of  you  are 
burdened  with  defects  of  your  own ;  reproach  not  others  with 
their  failings.  Whosoever  is  sensible  of  his  own  faults  carps 
not  at  another's  failing." 

THE  SINNER  AND  THE  MONK. 

IN  JESUS'  time  there  lived  a  youth  so  black  and  dissolute, 

That  Satan  from  him  shrank,  appalled  in  every  attribute. 

He  in  a  sea  of  pleasures  foul  uninterrupted  swam, 

And  gluttonized  on  dainty  vices,  sipping  many  a  dram. 

Whoever  met  him  in  the  highway  turned  as  from  a  pest, 

Or,  pointing  lifted  finger  at  him,  cracked  some  horrid  jest. 

I  have  been  told  that  Jesus  once  was  passing  by  the  hut 

Where  dwelt  a  monk,  who  asked  him  in,  and  just  the  door  had 

shut, 

When  suddenly  that  slave  of  sin  appeared  across  the  way. 
Far  off  he  paused,  fell  down,  and  sobbingly  began  to  pray. 
As  blinded  butterflies  will  from  the  light  affrighted  shrink, 
So  from  those  righteous  men  in  awe  his  timid  glances  sink ; 
And  like  a  storm  of  rain  the  tears  pour  gushing  from  his  eyes. 
"  Alas,  and  woe  is  me,  for  thirty  squandered  years,"  he  cries. 
"  In  drunkenness  I  have  expended  all  my  life's  pure  coin  ; 
And  now,  to  make  my  fit  award,  Hell's  worst  damnations  join. 
O  would  that  death  had  snatched  me  when  a  sinless  child  I  lay. 
That  ne'er  had  I  been  forced  this  dreadful  penalty  to  pay. 
Yet  if  thou  let'st  no  sinner  drown  who  sinks  on  mercy's  strand, 
O  then  in  pity,  I/>rd !  reach  forth  and  firmly  seize  my  hand." 

The  pride-puffed  monk,  self-righteous,  lifts  his  eyebrows  with  a 

sneer, 
And  haughtily  exclaims,  "Vile  wretch  !  in  vain  hast  thou  come 

here. 


PERSIAN  LITERATURE.  185 

Art  them  not  plunged  in  sin,  and  tossed  in  lust's  devouring  sea? 

What  will  thy  filthy  rags  avail  with  Jesus  and  with  me  ? 

O  God  !  the  granting  of  a  single  wish  is  all  I  pray; 

Grant  me  to  stand  far  distant  from  this  man  in  the  judgment- 
day." 

From  Heaven's  throne  a  revelation  instantaneous  broke, 

And  God's  own  thunder  words  thus  through  the  mouth  of  Jesus 
spoke ; 

"  The  two  whom  praying  there  I  see  shall  equally  be  heard  ; 

They  pray  diverse, — I  give  to  each  according  to  his  word. 

That  poor  one  thirty  years  has  rolled  in  sin's  most  slimy  deeps, 

But  now,  with  stricken  heart  and  streaming  tears,  for  pardon 
weeps. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  my  grace  he  throws  him  in  despair, 

And,  faintly  hoping  pity,  pours  his  supplications  there. 

Therefore,  forgiven  and  freed  from  all  the  guilt  in  which  he  lies, 

My  mercy  chooses  him  a  citizen  of  Paradise. 

This  monk  desires  that  he  may  not  that  sinner  stand  beside, 

Therefore  he  goes  to  Hell,  and  so  his  wish  is  gratified." 

The  one's  heart  in  his  bosom  sank,  the  other's  proudly  swelled  ; 
In  God's  pure  court  all  egotistic  claims  as  naught  are  held. 
Whose  robe  is  white,  but  black  as  night  his  heart  beneath  it  lies, 
Is  a  live  key  at  which  the  gate  of  Hell  wide  open  flies  ! 
Truly  not  self-conceit  and  legal  works  with  God  prevail ; 
But  humbleness  and  tenderness  weigh  down  Salvation's  scale. 

THE  MOTH  AND  THE  FLAME. 

As  once,  at  midnight  deep,  I  lay  with  sleepless  eyes, 

These  words  between  the  moth  and  light  did  me  surprise. 

The  moth  kisses  the  flame,  and  says,  with  tender  sigh  : 

"  Dear  radiance  !  I  rejoice  from  love  for  thee  to  die. 

My  love,  thou  diest  not,  yet  anxious  groans  and  strong 

Break  loudly  from  thy  heart,  through  all  the  darkness  long  !  " 

The  bright  flame  says,  "  O  moth  !  whom  love  to  me  attracts, 

Know  that  I  also  burn  with  love  for  this  sweet  wax. 

Must  I  not  groan,  as  more  my  lover  melting  sinks, 

And  from  his  life  my  fatal  fire  still  deeper  drinks  ? ' ' 

As  thus  she  spake,  the  hot  tears  coursed  her  yellow  cheek, 

And  with  each  tear  crackled  a  separation  shriek. 

Then  from  her  mouth  these  further  words  of  pleading  fall: 


1 86  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

"  Poor  moth  !  boasting  of  love,  say  not  thou  lov'st  at  all. 

Ah  !  how  thou  moan'st  when  the  fierce  heat  one  wing  has  seared ; 

I  stand  till  my  whole  form  in  flame  has  disappeared. ' ' 

And  so  she  talked  till  morning  shone  the  room  about ; 

When  lo !  a  maiden  came  to  put  the  candle  out ; 

It  flickered  up, — the  wick  a  smoking  relic  lay. 

'Tis  thus,  O  gentle  hearts !  that  true  love  dies  away. 

KING  TOGHRUL  AND  THE  SENTINEL. 

I  HAVE  heard  that  King  Toghrul  came  in  his  rounds  on  a 
Hindu  sentinel.  The  snow  was  falling  thick,  and  it  rained  in  tor- 
rents, and  he  shivered  with  the  cold  like  the  star  Canopus.  The 
heart  of  the  King  was  moved  with  compassion,  and  he  said : 
"Thou  shall  put  on  my  fur-mantle;  wait  a  moment  at  the  end 
of  the  terrace,  and  I  will  send  it  out  by  the  hand  of  a  slave." 
Meanwhile  a  piercing  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  King  walked  into 
his  royal  hall.  There  the  sight  of  a  lovely  lady  so  enchanted 
him,  that  the  poor  sentinel  entirely  slipped  his  memory.  As 
though  the  wintry  cold  was  not  suffering  enough,  to  his  evil  for- 
tune were  added  the  pangs  of  disappointment. 

Hear,  whilst  the  King  slept  in  comfort,  what  the  watchman 
was  saying  towards  the  dawning  of  the  morning : 

"  Perhaps  thy  good  fortune  made  thee  forgetful,  for  thy  hand 
was  clasped  in  the  hand  of  thy  beloved.  For  thee  the  night 
passed  in  mirth  and  enjoyment;  what  knowest  thou  of  how  it 
passed  with  us  ?  When  the  company  of  the  caravan  are  stoop- 
ing the  head  over  the  platter,  what  concern  have  they  for  those 
who  have  fallen  down  in  the  sand  [the  desert]  ?  O  boatman, 
launch  thy  boat  into  the  water,  for  it  hath  nearly  reached  the  head 
of  the  helpless  waders !  Stay  jrour  steps  a  while,  ye  active  youths, 
for  in  the  caravan  are  weak  old  men  also.  Thou  who  art  sleeping 
sweetly  in  thy  litter,  whilst  the  bridle  of  the  camel  is  in  the  hand 
of  the  driver,  what  to  thee  are  plain,  and  hill,  and  stone,  and 
sand?— Ask  how  it  is  with  those  who  are  left  behind  on  the 
journey.  Thou  who  art  borne  along  on  thine  high  and  strong 
dromedary,  how  knowest  thou  how  he  fareth  who  is  traveling  on 
foot  ?  They  who  in  the  quiet  of  their  hearts  are  reposing  at  the 
resting-place,  what  know  they  of  the  condition  of  the  hungry 
wayfarer  ? ' ' 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  II. — 1400-1550. 

fifteenth  century  produced  two  Italian  poets 
of  romance,  the  sportive  Pulci  and  the  serious 
Boiardo.  They  were  inferior  in  genius  not  only 
to  their  path-breaking  predecessors,  Dante  and 
Petrarch,  but  also  to  their  romantic  successors, 
Ariosto  and  Tasso.  Yet  they  served  to  preserve  the 
succession  and  tradition  of  heroic  poetry.  Their  fame  rests  on 
their  revival. of  the  mythical  stories  of  Charlemagne  and  his 
Peers.  Though  that  great  Prankish  monarch  had  waged 
successful  war  with  the  Saxons  and  had  been  solemnly  crowned 
emperor  at  Rome,  it  was  his  expedition  into  Spain  that,  in 
spite  of  its  disastrous  issue,  became  a  favorite  with  the  medi- 
aeval romancers.  The  underlying  reason  probably  was  that 
war  with  the  Moors  implied  and  suggested  the  sentiments 
prevalent  throughout  Europe  in  the  age  of  the  Crusades. 
The  most  famous  poem  of  this  cycle  was  the  ' '  Chanson  de 
Roland."  *  In  the  revised  version,  which  was  accepted  and 
expanded  in  Italy,  the  hero  was  called  Orlando.  Nicolas  of 
Padua,  about  1320,  wrote  a  romance  on  "The  Entry  into 
Spain,"  with  a  sequel  on  "The  Capture  of  Pampeluna." 
These  romances,  which  hardly  rose  above  street  ballads, 
formed  the  ground-work  of  Sagna's  "Defeat  at  Roncesvalles." 


*  See  Volume  I.,  p.  199. 


187 


1 88  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

There  was  also  a  prose  harmony  of  the  Cycle  of  Charlemagne, 
called  "  The  Prankish  Royalty."  At  last  came  Pulci,  who 
was  destined  to  raise  these  vernacular  romances  from  the 
vulgar  level  to  the  height  of  accepted  literature.  Pulci,  how- 
ever, in  his  "Morgante  Maggiore,"  treated  his  subject  in  a 
playful  and  even  burlesque  way.  The  learned  and  accom- 
plished Boiardo,  after  translating  Herodotus  and  Apuleius, 
composed  in  somewhat  similar  style  the  "  Orlando  Innamo- 
rato,"  but  as  it  was  left  unfinished,  it  was  recast  several  years 
later  by  Berni,  the  master  of  the  humorous  style,  exemplified 
in  English  by  Byron's  "Don  Juan." 

The  century  after  the  death  of  Petrarch  was  chiefly  devoted 
by  cultivated  Italians  to  renewed  zeal  in  the  study  of  the 
Latin  classics,  and  to  unsuccessful  attempts  to  rival  those 
immortal  productions  in  the  same  language.  The  Humanists 
long  persisted  in  using  Latin  freely  for  all  purposes,  but  Italy 
in  the  sixteenth  century  witnessed  a  notable  revival  of  interest 
in  the  vernacular.  The  gay  court  of  Ferrara  was  the  chief 
literary  centre,  and  throughout  the  peninsula  Petrarchists  and 
Boccaccists  abounded.  Every  gentleman  was  expected  to  be 
able  to  indite  a  sonnet.  Among  the  love-sick  singers  was  the 
learned  but  sensual  Cardinal  Bembo  (1476-1547).  In  vain  did 
the  satirist  hold  the  Petrarchist  up  to  scorn ;  the  fashion  was 
bound  to  run  to  its  extreme  length.  Among  the  noteworthy 
sonneteers  were  the  mighty  Michael  Angelo,  whose  genius 
rose  to  sublime  heights  in  the  world  of  art :  Galeazzo  di  Tar- 
sia (1492-1555),  who  was  also  one  of  the  many  admirers  of 
the  gifted  Vittoria  Colonna  (1490- 15 47), in  whose  honor  most 
of  his  lyrics  were  written.  Nor  was  the  lady  whom  he  thus 
honored  the  only  poetess  of  her  age ;  Gaspara  Stampa  (1523- 
1554),  who  had  a  romantic  love  disappointment,  won  for  her- 
self the  name  of  a  second  Sappho.  Her  verses  depict  the 
tragedy  of  her  love  for  a  young  nobleman,  Collatino  di 
Collalto.  Sannazaro,  besides  writing  excellent  sonnets  and 
lyrical  pieces,  achieved  special  distinction  by  reviving  pasto- 
ral poetry  in  a  new  form  in  his  famous  "Arcadia." 

Meantime,  the  succession  of  prose  tales  in  the  style  of 
Boccaccio  ran  on,  though  none  of  his  successors  equalled  his 
style  or  attained  to  his  fame.  Massucio  from  Salerno  in  the 


ITALIAN  UTERATURB.  189 

south,  Arienti  from  Bologna  and  Illicini  from  Sienna,  in 
the  centre,  and  Luigi  da  Porto  from  Vicenza  in  the  north,  are 
among  the  novelists  whose  brief  stories  have  survived.  But 
more  distinguished  than  any  of  these,  not  merely  for  his  single 
novel  or  his  historical  treatise,  but  for  his  remarkable  contri- 
bution to  political  philosophy,  is  the  great  Florentine,  Niccolo 
Machiavelli.  Besides  his  "Principe,"  still  the  subject  of 
learned  discussion,  his  "History  of  Florence,"  his  "Dis- 
courses on  Lavy,"  his  comedies  and  poems  of  less  merit,  his 
whimsical  novel,  "Belphegor,"  has  given  him  high  rank 
among  Italian  writers. 

It  might  be  safer  to  dismiss  without  a  word  the  notorious 
Pietro  Aretino  (1492-1557),  who  has  been  styled  "the  illegi- 
timate apostle  of  obscenity."  He  first  wooed  the  muse  in  a 
series  of  obscene  sonnets,  which  lost  him  the  favor  of  the 
Papal  Court.  But  the  Medicis  and  the  gay  Francis  I.  of 
France  were  not  so  shocked.  His  scurrilous  speech  caused 
him,  indeed,  to  be  dreaded  by  the  most  powerful  monarchs  of 
the  age.  Charles  V.  and  Clement  VII.  cultivated  him.  He 
was  created  a  knight  and  pensioned  as  a  sort  of  blackmail 
levy.  Aretino  was  so  proud  of  the  fear  which  he  inspired 
that  he  styled  himself  the  "divine"  and  the  "scourge  of 
princes.' ' 

The  condition  of  Italy  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century 
is  thus  described  by  the  contemporary  historian  Francesco 
Guicciardini  (1480-1540):  "Never  had  Italy  enjoyed  such 
prosperity  or  known  so  enviable  a  state  of  things  as  that  in 
which  she  now  securely  reposed,  .  .  .  being  subject  to  none 
other  than  her  own  children.  Not  only  did  she  abound  in 
men  and  in  riches,  but  adorned  as  she  was  by  the  magnifi- 
cence of  modern  princes,  by  the  splendor  of  the  noblest  and 
most  beautiful  cities,  and  by  the  supreme  chair  and  majesty 
of  religion;  she  flourished  in  the  number  of  her  eminent 
politicians,  as  well  as  in  intellects  ennobled  by  every  science, 
and  by  all  the  liberal  and  industrial  arts  ;  not  being  destitute 
either  of  military  glory,  according  to  notions  of  the  time ; 
thus  richly  endowed,  she  maintained  a  great  name  and  illus- 
trious character  among  all  nations." 


190  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


LUIGI    PULCI. 

LUIGI  PULCI,  born  in  Florence  in  1431,  of  a  noble  family, 
was  the  youngest  of  three  brothers  who  all  won  good 
reputation  for  ability  and  learning.  Luigi  grew  up  in  the 
house  of  the  Medici,  and  was  on  the  most  intimate  terms  with 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent.  The  latter,  in  his  poem  on  Hawk- 
ing, represents  himself  as  calling  his  fellow-sportsmen  about 
him,  but  missing  Luigi,  he  inquires  : 

"  And  where's  Luigi  Pulci  ?     I  saw  him" 
Oh,  in  the  wood  there.     Gone,  depend  upon  it, 

To  vent  some  fancy  of  his  brain — some  whim, 
That  will  not  let  him  rest  till  it's  a  sonnet." 

Pulci,  having  become  noted  for  this  facility  in  throwing  off 
light  verses,  was  requested  by  Lorenzo's  mother,  Lucrezia 
Tornabuoni,  to  compose  a  heroic  poem  on  Charlemagne,  whose 
greatness  was  disfigured  in  the  rude  ballads  of  wandering 
singers.  An  obscure  chivalrous  poem  furnished  the  mass  of 
the  material,  but  Pulci  must  treat  it  in  his  own  way,  which 
has  somewhat  bothered  the  critics  and  raised  a  controversy 
among  them.  He  calls  his  poem  "Morgante  Maggiore," 
Morgante  the  Great,  from  a  giant  who  is  a  conspicuous  actor 
in  the  early  part.  He  is  converted  to  Christianity,  but  dies 
of  the  bite  of  a  crab,  when  the  poem  is  half  finished.  Orlando 
(Roland)  is  the  hero,  and  perhaps  in  order  to  exalt  his  merits, 
the  poet  strips  Charlemagne  of  many  of  his  venerable  attri- 
butes, and  even  makes  Charles  a  confederate  of  the  traitor  Gano 
(or  Ganelon).  Yet  in  the  epilogue  the  wayward  poet  makes 
tardy  reparation  to  the  emperor  by  recalling  his  many  benefits 
and  naming  him  divine.  The  grotesque  extravagance  of 
some  portions  of  the  poem  have  suggested  to  some  critics  that 
Pulci' s  real  purpose  was  similar  to  that  of  Cervantes  in  relat- 
ing the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  and  that  he  was  mocking 
at  chivalry.  Its  capricious  character,  however,  seems  due  to 
the  poet's  facility  in  versification,  combined  with  a  certain 
indolence  and  reluctance  to  observe  any  definite  rules  of  art. 
This  accounts  also  for  the  prolixity  which  pervades  the  poem. 
Another  suggestion  is  that  the  poet  wrote  partly  to  amuse  the 


ITALIAN  UTERATURE.  19! 

many,  while  seeking  also  to  elevate  the  style  of  romance  by 
occasional  serious  passages.  All  his  cantos  commence  with  a 
sacred  invocation,  and  religious  reflections  are  frequently  in- 
termixed with  the  droll  adventures.  This,  however,  was  the 
fashion  of  the  time  and  people  among  whom  he  wrote.  The 
"Morgante"  ends  with  an  address  to  the  Virgin  respecting 
the  lady  who  had  suggested  the  poem,  and  a  hope  that  her 
devout  spirit  may  obtain  peace  for  him  in  Paradise. 

Nothing  is  certainly  known  of  Pulci's  later  days,  but  he  is 
said  to  have  died  at  Padua.  He  may  have  suffered  in  the 
troubles  which  overtook  the  Medici  family  after  the  death  of 
lyorenzo. 

ORLANDO  AND  THE  GIANTS. 

ORLANDO,  while  wandering  through  the  world  with  his  horse 
Rondello  and  his  good  sword  Cortana,  came  to  an  abbey  which  stood 
on  the  border  between  Christendom  and  the  land  of  the  Pagans.  It 
was  constantly  in  danger  from  stones  flung  by  three  terrible  giants. 

The  abbot  was  called  Clermont,  and  by  blood 

Descended  from  Angrante ;  under  cover 
Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood, 

But  certain  savage  giants  looked  him  over ; 
One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 

And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover, 
Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 
In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more, 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood. 

Orlando  knocked,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seemed  good  ; 

Entered,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  born  of  Mary's  holiest  blood, 

And  was  baptized  a  Christian  ;  and  then  showed 

How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

Said  the  abbot,  ' '  You  are  welcome ;  what  is  mine 
We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 

With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  Son  divine  ; 
And  that  you  may  not,  Cavalier,  conceive 

The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 


192  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barred  to  you ; 
Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

"  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obscure, 

As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 
They  seemed  to  promise  an  asylum  sure  : 

From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 
'Twas  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure ; 

But  now,  if  here  we'd  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 

Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 

"  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch, 
For  late  there  have  appeared  three  giants  rough ; 

What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 
I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff. 

When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  match, 
You  know,  they  can  do  all, — we're  not  enough  : 

And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 

I  know  not  what  to  do,  till  matters  change. 

"  Our  ancient  fathers,  living  the  desert  in, 

For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed ; 
Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  'tis  certain 

That  manna  was  rained  down  from  heaven  instead : 
But  here  'tis  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  showered  down  for  bread, 
From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster, 
And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

"The  third,  Morgante,  is  savagest  by  far;  he 

Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar  trees  and  oaks, 

And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury  ; 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes." 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 

Which  nearly  crushed  Rondello,  came  tumbling  over, 

So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Cavalier,  come  in  with  speed  ! 

The  manna's  falling  now,"  the  abbot  cried. 
"  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should  feed, 

Dear  Abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied. 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  1 

"Of  restiveness  he'd  cure  him,  had  he  need ; 

That  stone  seems  with  good- will  and  aim  applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  "  I  don't  deceive  ; 
They'll  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  believe." 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 

And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  his  own  : 
"Abbot,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 

Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner-stone." 
Said  the  Abbot,  "  I<et  not  my  advice  seem  shallow, 

As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone  ; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  Baron,  from  this  strife, 
As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

"  That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts, — 

Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield  you  must; 

You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  we,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just. 

If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts, 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust. ' ' 

Orlando  answered,  "This  I'll  see,  be  sure, 

And  walk  the  wild  on  foot,  to  be  secure." 

The  abbot  signed  the  great  cross  on  his  front — 

"  Then  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  mine.w 
Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 

As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 
Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont, 

Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 
Surveyed  him  fore  and  aft,  with  eyes  observant, 
Then  asked  him,  if  he  wished  to  stay  as  servant, 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease. 

But  said  Orlando,  "  Saracen  insane  ! 
I  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God, — not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train  ; 
You  with  His  monks  so  oft  liave  broke  the  peace, 

Vile  dog  !  'tis  past  His  patience  to  sustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  furious. 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 

And  being  returned  to  where  Orlando  stood, 

Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 
iv— 13 


194  LITERATURE;  OP  ALT,  NATIONS. 

The  cord,  he  hurled  a  stone  with  strength  so  rude, 
As  showed  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging  ; 

It  rolled  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good, 

And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing, 

So  that  he  swooned  with  pain  as  if  he  died, 

But  more  than  dead,  he  seemed  so  stupefied. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  outright, 
Said,  "  I  will  go  and,  while  he  lies  .along, 

Disarm  me :  why  such  craven  did  I  fight  ?  " 
But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 

Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight 
As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 

While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off  his  defences, 

Orlando  has  recalled  his  force  and  senses ; 

And  loud  he  shouted,  "  Giant,  where  dost  go? 

Thou  thought' st  me,  doubtless,  for  the  bier  outlaid; 
To  the  right  about !  without  wings  thou'rt  too  slow 

To  fly  my  vengeance,  currish  renegade  ! 
'Twas  but  by  treachery  thou  laidst  me  low." 

The  giant  his  astonishment  betrayed, 
And  turned  about,  and  stopped  his  journey  on, 
And  then  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand ; 

To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed ! 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeemed  ; 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay,  he  banned, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  [Mahomet]  still  blasphemed ; 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 

Orlando  thanked  the  Father  and  the  Word, — 

Saying,  "  What  grace  to  me  thou'st  this  day  given  1 

And  I  to  thee,  O  I/)rd,  am  ever  bound. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  downed. 
All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even ; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  naught  be  found. 
I  pray  thee,  take  heed  of  me  till  I  can, 
At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  195 

And  having  said  this  much,  he  went  his  way; 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  bank  a  rock  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  he  reached  him,  loud  'gan  say, 

"How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  to  throw?" 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling, 

And  hurled  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 
That,  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfilled  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  availed  him  of  his  targe, 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  physician. 

Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge, 
And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 

With  all  his  sword.     The  lout  fell ;  but,  o'erthrown,  he, 

However,  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth, 
And  stretched  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode, 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  berth. 
Orlando  knocked,  and  knocked  again,  to  goad 

The  giant  from  his  sleep ;  and  he  came  forth, 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing; 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attacked  him ; 

And  Mahomet  he  called ;  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  backed  him ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  racked  him ; 

And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret. 
"  Who  knocks  here?  "  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  he. 
" That,"  said  Orlando,  "you  will  quickly  see. 

"  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers, — 
Sent  by  the  miserable  monks, — repentance ; 

For  Providence  Divine,  in  you  and  others, 

Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaintance. 

'Tis  writ  on  high,  your  wrong  must  pay  another's; 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence. 


196  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Know,  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

Morgante  said,  ' '  O  gentle  Cavalier, 
Now,  by  thy  God,  say  me  no  villany  ! 

The  favor  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear, 
And,  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 

Replied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear     . 
I,  by  my  faith,  disclose  contentedly ; 

Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  L,ord, 

And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

The  Saracen  rejoined,  in  humble  tone, 
"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision : 

A  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone, 

And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition ; 

Hence,  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferred  I  my  petition ; 

His  timely  succor  set  me  safe  and  free, 

And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 

THE  VILLAIN  MARGUTTE. 

ANSWERED  Margutte :  "  Friend,  I  never  boasted: 
I  don't  believe  in  black  more  than  in  blue, 

But  in  fat  capons,  boiled  or  may-be  roasted ; 
And  I  believe  sometimes  in  butter  too, 

In  beer  and  must,  where  bobs  a  pippin  toasted ; 
Sharp  liquor  more  than  sweet  I  reckon  true ; 

But  mostly  to  old  wine  my  faith  I  pin, 

And  hold  him  saved  who  firmly  trusts  therein. 

"  Apollo's  nought  but  a  delirious  vision, 
And  Trivigant  perchance  a  midnight  spectre : 

Faith,  like  the  itch,  is  catching;  what  revision 
This  sentence  needs,  you'll  make,  nor  ask  the  rector: 

To  waste  no  words  you  may  without  misprision 
Dub  me  as  rank  a  heretic  as  Hector : 

I  don't  disgrace  my  lineage,  nor  indeed 

Am  I  the  cabbage-ground  for  any  creed. 

"  Faith's  as  man  gets  it,  this,  that,  or  another! 
See  then  what  sort  of  creed  I'm  bound  to  follow: 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  197 

For  you  must  know  a  Greek  nun  was  my  mother, 
My  sire  at  Brusa,  'mid  the  Turks,  a  mollah ; 

I  played  the  rebeck  first,  and  made  a  pother 
About  the  Trojan  war,  flattered  Apollo, 

Praised  up  Achilles,  Hector,  Helen  fair, 

Not  once,  but  twenty  thousand  times,  I  swear. 

"  Next,  growing  weary  of  my  light  guitar, 

I  donned  a  military  bow  and  quiver  ; 
One  day  within  the  mosque  I  went  to  war, 

And  shot  my  grave  old  daddy  through  the  liver : 
Then  to  my  loins  I  girt  this  scimitar, 

And  journeyed  forth  o'er  sea,  land,  town  and  river, 
Taking  for  comrades  in  each  holy  work 
The  congregated  sins  of  Greek  and  Turk. 

"That's  much  the  same  as  all  the  sins  of  hell ! 

I've  seventy-seven  at  least  about  me,  mortal; 
Summer  and  winter  in  my  breast  they  swell : 

Guess  now  how  many  venial  crowd  the  portal ! 
'Twere  quite  impossible,  I  know  full  well, 

If  the  world  never  ended,  to  report  all 
The  crimes  I've  done  in  this  one  life  alone ; 
Each  item  too  is  catalogued  and  known. 

"  I  pray  you  listen  for  one  little  minute ; 

The  skein  shall  be  unraveled  in  a  trice : — 
When  I've  got  cash,  I'm  gay  as  any  linnet, 

Cast  with  who  calls,  cut  cards,  and  fling  the  dice  ; 
All  times,  all  places,  or  the  devil's  in  it, 

Serve  me  for  play  ;  I've  spent  on  this  one  vice 
Fame,  fortune — staked  my  coat,  my  shirt,  my  breeches  ; 
I  hope  this  specimen  will  meet  your  wishes. 

"  Don't  ask  what  juggler's  tricks  I  teach  the'boxes  ! 

Or  whether  sizes  serve  me  when  I  call, 
Or  jumps  an  ace  up  ! — Foxes  pair  with  foxes ; 

The  same  pitch  tars  our  fingers,  one  and  all ! — 
Perhaps  I  don't  know  how  to  fleece  the  doxies  ? 

Perhaps  I  can't  cheat,  cozen,  swindle,  bawl? 
Perhaps  I  never  learned  to  patter  slang  ? — 
I  know  each  trick,  each  turn,  and  lead  the  gang." 


NICCOLO  MACHIAVELLI. 


THE  name  of  Niccolo  Machiavelli  has  stood  for  infamy 
throughout  three  centuries,  and  even  yet  has  a  flavor  of  the 
diabolic  about  it.  The  Elizabethan  playwright  brought  out 
the  figure  of  Machiavelli  as  prologue  much  as  if  it  repre- 
sented Fiendishness  incarnate;  and  to-day  Machiavellian 
politics  are  regarded  as  synonymous  with  arbitrary  power  sup- 
ported by  cunning  craft.  In  reality  Niccolo  Machiavelli  was, 
if  his  newer  and  brighter  rehabilitation  be  correct,  a  warm 
lover  of  freedom.  As  Snell  puts  the  case:  u Machiavelli' s 
'  II  Principe '  (The  Prince)  is  a  scientific  presentment  of 
certain  very  abstruse  results  which  he  had  accomplished  in 
his  '  Commentary  on  Livy ' — a  treatise  on  political  science. 
In  spite  of  its  evil  savor,  it  was  written,  there  is  every  reason 
to  believe,  with  the  best  intentions.  The  actual  design  of 
Machiavelli  is  to  show  on  what  terms  sovereignty  can  be 
attained  and  upheld,  human  nature  remaining  what  it  is. 
'  II  Principe '  at  first  sight  presents  no  ideal,  and  this  is  pro- 
bably the  reason  for  the  disappointment  and  disgust  with 
which  many,  especially  modern,  readers  have  perused  it. 
Certainly  Machiavelli  takes  a  very  low  view  of  ordinary 
morality,  but  the  facts  with  which  observation  and  experience 
had  rendered  him  familiar  in  practical  life,  justified  and 
almost  necessitated  this  pessimism.  Machiavelli  had  apoliti- 
cal as  well  as  a  scientific  aim  in  writing  this  book,  and  it 
was  not  adverse  to  liberty.  He  looked  (as  he  tells  us  in  the 
last  sentence)  for  the  regeneration  of  Italy,  the  expulsion  of 
198 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  199 

the  foreigner,  the  unity  of  rule.  His  work,  in  fact,  was  com- 
posed with  the  view  to  the  freeing  of  his  country  by  some 
petty  prince,  whose  skill  and  genius,  assisted  by  the  counsels 
of  wise  men,  should  do  what  indeed  was  done  later  by  the 
Savoyard  princes.  .  .  .  Instead  of  this  the  work  came  to  be 
regarded  as  a  convenient  manual  for  tyrants,  and  it  is  probable 
that  no  book  has  ever  done  more  harm  to  its  author  or  more 
mischief  to  humanity.  Charles  V.,  Catherine  de  Medicis, 
Henri  III.  and  Henri  IV.  made  it  their  daily  companion,  and 
its  fame  having  reached  the  Levant,  Mustapha  III.  caused  it 
to  be  translated  into  Turkish.  More  recently  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  is  said  to  have  studied  it  in  the  hope  of  discover- 
ing some  hints  for  the  maintenance  of  his  huge  and  ill-gotten 
empire." 

Machiavelli  seems  to  have  chosen  an  idealized  Cesare 
Borgia  for  his  hero.  Although  he  called  the  real  Cesare  a 
"basilisk"  and  a  "hydra,"  he  admired  Borgia's  statecraft, 
unscrupulous  though  he  was.  Machiavelli  wished  his  ideal 
Prince  to  mingle  the  natures  of  the  fox  and  the  lion,  and  he 
speaks  of  "  honorable  fraud  "  and  "  splendid  rascality."  As 
Macaulay  declared,  Machiavelli  was,  after  all,  an  Italian  of 
his  day  and  generation.  He  advocated  a  national  army  and 
militia  for  his  national  tyrant,  and  foreshadowed  the  coming 
monarchies  of  Europe. 

Niccolo  Machiavelli  was  born  at  Florence  in  1469.  He 
was  for  some  time  Secretary  of  the  Florentine  Republic,  and 
he  wrote  the  History  of  Florence  in  eight  books,  from  the 
fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  to  the  rise  of  the  Italian  Republics. 
This  history  is  justly  distinguished  for  its  style  and  its  spirit 
of  philosophy.  But  Machiavelli  also  shone  in  the  golden  age 
of  the  Medici  as  dramatist  and  novelist,  his  versatility  being 
remarkable.  In  his  comedy  "Mandragola,"  he  satirized  the 
social  parasite  and  the  religious  impostor  in  a  plot  of  a  gulled 
husband  who  carves  his  own  horns.  His  great,  and  only 
extant,  novel  is  "Belphegor."  The  whimsical  plot  of  the 
story  was  first  narrated  in  an  old  Latin  MS.  An  old  English 
play  (1691),  modelled  on  Machiavelli's  novella,  was  entitled 
"Belphegor,  or,  the  Marriage  of  the  Devil." 


200  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 


SHOULD  PRINCES  BE  FAITHFUL  TO  THEIR  ENGAGEMENTS? 

THE  work  on  which  the  fame  of  Machiavelli,  for  good  or  evil, 
rests,  is  "The  Prince."  It  was  written  about  1514 ;  but  was  not  printed 
until  1532 — five  years  after  the  author's  death.  It  is  chiefly  devoted  to  the 
character  which  must  be  possessed  by  the  prince  who  has  become  the 
ruler  of  a  state,  by  conquest,  election,  or  hereditary  right,  and  wishes 
to  retain  his  power.  Towards  the  close  of  the  work  he  discusses  the 
question,  "Whether  Princes  should  be  faithful  to  their  Engagements?" 
and  decides  that  they  should  not  be  so,  unless  this  course  be  for  their 
interest.  This  eighteenth  chapter  especially  has  given  rise  to  the  term 
"  Machiavellian,"  to  denote  a  crafty  and  unscrupulous  mode  of  policy. 

It  is  unquestionably  very  praiseworthy  in  princes  to  be 
faithful  to  their  engagements ;  but  among  those  of  the  pres- 
ent day  who  have  performed  great  exploits  few  of  them  have 
piqued  themselves  on  this  fidelity,  or  have  been  scrupulous  in 
deceiving  those  who  relied  on  their  good  faith.  It  should, 
therefore,  be  known  that  there  are  two  methods  of  warfare ; 
one  of  which  is  by  laws,  the  other  by  force.  The  first  is 
peculiar  to  men,  the  other  is  common  to  us  with  beasts.  But 
when  laws  are  not  powerful  enough,  it  is  very  necessary  to 
recur  to  force.  A  prince  ought  to  understand  how  to  fight 
with  both  these  kinds  of  arms. 

The  doctrine  is  admirably  displayed  to  us  by  the  ancient 
poets  in  the  allegorical  history  of  the  education  of  Achilles 
and  many  other  princes  of  antiquity  by  the  Centaur  Chiron 
who,  under  the  double  form  of  man  and  beast,  taught  those 
who  were  destined  to  govern  that  it  was  their  duty  to  use  by 
turns  the  arms  adapted  to  each  of  these  species,  seeing  that 
one  without  the  other  cannot  be  of  any  durable  advantage. 

Now  those  animals  whose  forms  the  prince  should  know 
how  to  assume  are  the  fox  and  the  lion.  The  first  can  but 
feebly  defend  himself  against  the  wolf,  and  the  other  readily 
falls  into  snares  that  are  laid  for  him.  From  the  first  a  prince 
will  learn  to  be  dexterous,  and  avoid  the  snares ;  and  from  the 
other  to  be  strong,  and  keep  the  wolves  in  awe.  Those  who 
despise  the  part  of  the  fox  understand  but  little  of  their  trade. 
In  other  words,  a  prudent  prince  cannot  nor  ought  to  keep  his 
word,  except  when  he  can  do  it  without  injury  to  himself,  or 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  2OI 

when   the   circumstances  under  which    he  contracted    the 
engagement  still  exist 

I  should  be  cautious  of  inculcating  such  a  principle  if  all 
men  were  good ;  but  as  they  are  all  wicked  and  ever  ready 
to  break  their  words,  a  prince  should  not  pique  himself  on 
keeping  his  more  scrupulously — and  it  is  always  easy  to 
justify  this  want  of  faith.  I  could  give  numerous  proofs  of  it, 
and  show  how  many  engagements  and  treaties  have  been 
broken  by  the  infidelity  of  princes ;  the  most  fortunate  of 
whom  has  always  been  he  who  best  understood  how  to  assume 
the  character  of  the  fox.  The  object  is  to  act  his  part  well, 
and  to  know  how  in  due  time  to  feign  and  dissemble.  And 
men  are  so  simple  and  so  weak  that  he  who  wishes  to  deceive 
easily  find  dupes. 

One  example,  taken  from  the  history  of  our  own  times, 
will  be  sufficient :  Pope  Alexander  VI.  played  during  his 
whole  life  a  game  of  deception ;  and  notwithstanding  his 
faithless  conduct  was  extremely  well  known,  he  was  in  all 
his  artifices  successful.  Oaths  and  protestations  cost  him 
nothing.  Never  did  a  prince  so  often  break  his  word,  nor 
pay  less  regard  to  his  engagements.  This  was  because  he 
knew  perfectly  well  this  part  of  the  art  of  government. 

There  is,  therefore,  no  necessity  for  a  prince  to  possess  all 
the  good  qualities  I  have  enumerated ;  but  it  is  indispensable 
that  he  should  appear  to  have  them.  I  will  even  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  it  is  sometimes  dangerous  to  make  use  of  them, 
though  it  is  always  useful  to  seem  to  possess  them.  It  is  the 
duty  of  a  prince  most  earnestly  to  endeavor  to  gain  the  repu- 
tation of  kindness,  clemency,  piety,  justice,  and  fidelity  to 
his  engagements.  He  ought  to  possess  all  these  good  quali- 
ties, but  still  to  retain  such  power  over  himself  as  to  display 
their  opposites  whenever  it  may  be  expedient.  I  maintain 
that  a  prince — and  more  especially  a  new  prince — cannot  with 
impunity  exercise  all  the  virtues,  because  his  own  self-preser- 
vation will  often  compel  him  to  violate  the  laws  of  charity, 
religion,  and  humanity.  He  should  habituate  himself  to 
bend  easily  to  the  various  circumstances  which  may  from 
time  to  time  surround  him.  In  a  word,  it  will  be  as  useful  to 
him  to  persevere  in  the  path  of  rectitude,  while  he  feels  no 


202  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

inconvenience  in  doing  so,  as  to  know  how  to  deviate  from  it 
when  circumstances  shall  require  it.  He  should,  above  all, 
study  to  utter  nothing  which  does  not  breathe  kindness, 
justice,  good  faith,  and  piety. 

The  last  quality  is,  however,  that  which  it  is  the  most 
important  for  him  to  appear  to  possess,  as  men  in  general 
judge  more  by  their  eyes  than  by  their  other  senses.  Every 
man  can  see,  but  it  is  allotted  to  but  few  to  know  how  to 
rectify  the  errors  which  they  commit  by  the  eyes.  We  easily 
discern  what  a  man  appears  to  be,  but  not  what  he  really  is ; 
and  the  smaller  number  dare  not  gainsay  the  multitude,  who 
besides  have  with  them  the  strength  and  the  splendor  of 
government. 

Now  when  it  is  necessary  to  form  a  judgment  of  the  mincfs 
of  men — and  more  especially  of  those  of  princes — as  we 
cannot  have  recourse  to  any  tribunal,  we  must  attend  only  to 
results.  The  point  is  to  maintain  his  authority.  Let  the 
means  be  what  they  may,  they  will  always  appear  honorable, 
and  every  one  will  praise  them ;  for  the  vulgar  are  always 
caught  by  appearances,  and  judge  only  by  the  event.  Now, 
the  "vulgar"  comprehend  almost  every  one,  and  the  few  are 
of  no  consequence  except  when  the  multitude  know  not  on 
whom  to  rely. 

A  prince  who  is  now  on  the  throne,  but  whom  I  do  not 
choose  to  name,*  always  preaches  peace  and  good  faith  ;  but 
if  he  had  observed  either  the  one  or  the  other,  he  would  more, 
than  once  have  lost  his  reputation  and  his  dominions. 

THE  RUSTIC  OUTWITS  THE  DEVIL. 

THE  fiend  Belphegor  had  been  allowed  to  come  on  earth.  He 
assumed  the  name  Roderigo  and  was  married,  but  the  haughty  airs  of 
his  wife  drove  all  servants  from  his  house  and  finally  compelled  him  to 
desert  her.  He  was  pursued  by  her  relatives,  but  rescued  by  Matteo, 
whom  he  rewarded  by  allowing  him  twice  to  remove  th?  fiend  from 
persons  whom  he  had  entered,  and  thus  get  great  wealth.  But  Roderigo 
warned  him  not  to  carry  this  practice  further. 

Matteo  returned  to  Florence  after  receiving  fifty  thousand 

*  He  refers  to  Ferdinand  V.,  King  of  Castile,  who  acquired  the 
kingdoms  of  Naples  and  Navarre. 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  203 

ducats  from  his  majesty,  in  order  to  enjoy  his  riches  in  peace, 
and  never  once  imagined  that  Roderigo  would  come  in  his 
way  again.  But  in  this  he  was  deceived  ;  for  he  soon  heard 
that  a  daughter  of  Louis,  King  of  France,  was  possessed  by 
an  evil  spirit,  which  disturbed  our  friend  Matteo  not  a  little, 
thinking  of  his  majesty's  great  authority  and  of  what  Rode- 
rigo had  said.  Hearing  of  Matteo's  great  skill,  and  finding 
no  other  remedy,  the  king  despatched  a  messenger  for  him, 
whom  Matteo  contrived  to  send  back  with  a  variety  of  excuses. 
But  this  did  not  long  avail  him;  the  king  applied  to  the 
Florentine  council,  and  our  hero  was  compelled  to  attend. 
Arriving  with  no  very  pleasant  sensations  at  Paris,  he  was 
introduced  into  the  royal  presence,  when  he  assured  his  ma- 
jesty that  though  it  was  true  he  had  acquired  some  fame  in 
the  course  of  his  demoniac  practice,  he  could  by  no  means 
always  boast  of  success,  and  that  some  devils  were  of  such  a 
desperate  character  as  not  to  pay  the  least  attention  to  threats, 
enchantments,  or  even  the  exorcisms  of  religion  itself.  He 
would,  nevertheless,  do  his  majesty's  pleasure,  entreating  at 
the  same  time  to  be  held  excused  if  it  should  happen  to  prove 
an  obstinate  case.  To  this  the  king  made  answer,  that  be  the 
case  what  it  might,  he  would  certainly  hang  him  if  he  did 
not  succeed.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  poor  Matteo's  terror 
and  perplexity  on  hearing  these  words  ;  but  at  length  muster- 
ing courage,  he  ordered  the  possessed  princess  to  be  brought 
into  his  presence.  Approaching  as  usual  close  to  her  ear,  he 
conjured  Roderigo  in  the  most  humble  terms,  by  all  he  had 
ever  done  for  him,  not  to  abandon  him  in  such  a  dilemma, 
but  to  show  some  sense  of  gratitude  for  past  services  and  to  leave 
the  princess.  ' '  Ah  !  thou  traitorous  villain  ! 1 '  cried  Rode- 
rigo, "hast  thou,  indeed,  ventured  to  meddle  in  this  business? 
Dost  thou  boast  thyself  a  rich  man  at  my  expense?  I  will 
now  convince  the  world  and  thee  of  the  extent  of  my  power, 
both  to  give  and  to  take  away.  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  thee  hanged  before  thou  lea  vest  this  place." 

Poor  Matteo  rinding  there  was  no  remedy,  said  nothing 
more,  but  wisely  set  his  head  to  work  in  order  to  discover  some 
other  means  of  expelling  the  spirit ;  for  which  purpose  he  said 
to  the  king,  "  Sire,  it  is  as  I  feared  ;  there  are  certain  spirits  of 


204  LITERATURE   OP   AI.I,  NATIONS. 

so  malignant  a  character  that  there  is  no  keeping  any  terms 
with  them,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  However,  I  will  make 
a  last  attempt,  and  I  trust  that  it  will  succeed  according  to 
our  wishes.  If  not,  I  am  in  your  majesty's  power,  and  I  hope 
you  will  take  compassion  on  my  innocence.  In  the  first  place, 
I  have  to  intreat  that  your  majesty  will  order  a  large  stage  to 
be  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  great  square,  such  as  will  ad- 
mit the  nobility  and  clergy  of  the  whole  city.  The  stage 
ought  to  be  adorned  with  all  kinds  of  silks  and  with  cloth  of 
gold,  and  with  an  altar  raised  in  the  middle.  To-morrow 
morning  I  would  have  your  majesty,  with  your  full  train  of 
lords  and  ecclesiastics  in  attendance,  seated  in  order  and  in 
magnificent  array,  as  spectators  of  the  scene  at  the  said  place. 
There,  after  having  celebrated  solemn  mass,  the  possessed 
princess  must  appear ;  but  I  have  in  particular  to  intreat  that 
on  one  side  of  the  square  may  be  stationed  a  band  of  men 
with  drums,  trumpets,  horns,  tambours,  bagpipes,  cymbals,  and 
kettle-drums,  and  all  other  kinds  of  instruments  that  make 
the  most  infernal  noise.  Now,  when  I  take  my  hat  off,  let 
the  whole  band  strike  up  and  approach  with  the  most  horrid 
uproar  towards  the  stage.  This,  along  with  a  few  other  secret 
remedies  which  I  shall  apply,  will  surely  compel  the  spirit  to 
depart.'' 

These  preparations  were  accordingly  made  by  the  royal 
command  ;  and  when  the  day,  being  Sunday  morning,  arrived, 
the  stage  was  seen  crowded  with  people  of  rank  and  the  square 
with  common  people.  Mass  was  celebrated,  and  the  possessed 
princess  conducted  between  two  bishops,  with  a  train  of  nobles, 
to  the  spot.  Now,  when  Roderigo  beheld  so  vast  a  concourse 
of  people,  together  with  all  this  awful  preparation,  he  was 
almost  struck  dumb  with  astonishment,  and  said  to  himself, 
"  I  wonder  what  that  cowardly  wretch  is  thinking  of  doing  now? 
Does  he  imagine  I  have  never  seen  finer  things  than  these  in 
the  regions  above — ay  !  and  more  horrid  things  below  !  How- 
ever, I  will  soon  make  him  repent  it,  at  all  events."  Matteo 
then  approaching  him,  besought  him  to  come  out ;  but  Rode- 
rigo replied,  "Oh,  you  think  you  have  done  a  fine  thing  now  ! 
What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  all  this  trumpery?  Can  you 
escape  my  power,  think  you,  in  this  way^  or  elude  the  ven- 


ITALIAN  LITER ATURK.  205 

geance  of  the  king?  Thou  poltroon  villain,  I  will  have  thee 
hanged  for  this ! ' '  And  as  Matteo  continued  the  more  to 
entreat  him,  his  adversary  still  vilified  him  in  the  same  strain. 
So  Matteo,  believing  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  made  the 
sign  with  his  hat,  when  all  the  musicians  who  had  been  sta- 
tioned there  for  the  purpose  suddenly  struck  up  a  hideous 
din,  and,  ringing  a  thousand  peals,  approached  the  spot.  Ro- 
derigo  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  sound,  quite  at  a  loss  what 
to  think,  and  rather  in  a  perturbed  tone  of  voice  he  asked 
Matteo  what  it  meant.  To  this  the  latter  returned,  apparently 
much  alarmed,  ' '  Alas  !  dear  Roderigo,  it  is  your  wife  ;  she  is 
coming  for  you  ! "  It  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
anguish  of  Roderigo' s  mind  and  the  strange  alteration  which 
his  feelings  underwent  at  that  name.  The  moment  the  name 
of  "wife"  was  pronounced  he  had  no  longer  presence  of 
mind  to  consider  whether  it  were  probable,  or  even  possible; 
that  it  could  be  her.  Without  replying  a  single  word,  he 
leaped  out  and  fled  in  the  utmost  terror,  leaving  the  lady  to 
herself,  and  preferring  rather  to  return  to  his  infernal  abode 
and  render  an  account  of  his  adventures,  than  run  the  risk  of 
any  further  sufferings  and  vexations  under  the  matrimonial 
yoke.  And  thus  Belphegor  again  made  his  appearance  in  the 
infernal  domains,  bearing  ample  testimony  to  the  evils  intro- 
duced into  a  household  by  a  wife  ;  while  Matteo,  on  his  part, 
who  knew  more  of  the  matter  than  the  devil,  returned  tri- 
umphantly home,  not  a  little  proud  of  the  victory  he  had 
achieved. 

THE  CREDULOUS  FOOL. 

(Chorus  from  "La  Mandragola.") 

How  happy  is  he,  as  all  may  see 
Who  has  the  good  fortune  a  fool  to  be, 
And  what  you  tell  him  will  always  believe ! 
No  ambition  can  grieve, 

No  fear  can  affright  him, 
Which  are  wont  to  be  seeds 

Of  pain  and  annoy. 
This  doctor  of  ours, 

/Tis  not  hard  to  delight  him — 
If  you  tell  him  'twill  gain  him 


2o6  LITERATURE;  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

His  heart's  wish  and  joy, 

He'll  believe  in  good  faith  that  an  ass  can  fly, — 
Or  that  black  is  white,  and  the  truth  a  lie, — 
All  things  in  the  world  he  may  well  forget— 
Save  the  one  whereon  his  whole  heart  is  set. 

MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO. 

IT  was  the  fate  of  the  second  Italian  poet  who  took  Orlando 
as  his  hero  to  be  obliged  to  leave  his  work  unfinished.  A 
successor  took  it  up,  retouched  almost  every  line,  and  issued 
it  as  his  own.  The  later  version  is  better  known  than  the 
first,  and  though  Boiardo' s  name  is  duly  recorded  in  all  his- 
tories of  Italian  literature,  Berni's  "Orlando  Innamorato"  is 
more  frequently  printed  aud  read.  Gradually  it  has  been 
discerned  that  the  greater  merit  belongs  to  the  elder  poet. 

Matteo  Maria  Boiardo,  born  in  1434,  near  Ferrara,  was 
educated  at  its  university,  and  was  attached  to  the  court  of 
Hercules,  Count  of  Ferrara.  Among  other  public  employ- 
ments he  was  sent  on  embassies  to  several  Italian  cities,  was 
captain  of  Modena  and  governor  of  Reggio.  He  was  an  in- 
dulgent master  and  fonder  of  making  love-verses  than  of  the 
sterner  duties  of  his  office.  His  learning  was  early  shown  in 
translations  from  the  Greek  classics,  and  afterwards  in  his 
drama,  "Timon,"  founded  on  L/ucian's  "Misanthrope." 
But  his  fame  rests  on  his  "  Orlando  Innamorato,"  which  was 
interrupted  by  the  French  invasion  of  Italy,  and  afterwards 
recast  in  a  less  sober  style  by  Berni.  The  epic  romance  con- 
sists of  three  chief  parts :  the  search  for  Angelica,  the  beau- 
tiful but  deceitful  princess  of  Cathay,  by  Orlando  and  other 
lovers ;  the  siege  of  her  father's  city,  Albracca,  by  the  Tar- 
tars ;  and  the  siege  of  Paris  by  the  Moors.  Yet  there  are 
numerous  episodes  loosely  interwoven,  and  the  scene  shifts 
easily  from  France  to  China.  Boiardo  created  the  character 
of  Angelica,  and  spun  this  epic  for  the  amusement  of  Duke 
Hercules  and  his  court  of  Ferrara.  He  has  described  his 
own  chateau  and  grounds  in  the  landscape  of  this  poem, 
and  (it  is  even  said)  gave  the  names  of  some  of  his  peasants 
to  the  Saracen  warriors,  Mandricardo,  Gradasse,  Sacripant  and 
Agramante. 


ITALIAN   I4TURATURE,  2O/ 


PRASILDO  AND  TISBINA. 

IROLDO,  a  knight  of  Babylon,  had  to  wife  a  lady  of  the 
name  of  Tisbina,  whom  he  loved  with  a  passion  equal  to  that 
of  Tristan  for  Iseult ;  and  she  returned  his  love  with  such 
fondness,  that  her  thoughts  were  occupied  with  him  from 
morning  till  night.  They  had  a  neighbor  who  was  accounted 
the  greatest  nobleman  in  the  city  ;  and  he  deserved  his  credit, 
for  he  spent  his  great  riches  in  doing  honor  to  his  rank. 
He  was  pleasant  in  company,  formidable  in  battle,  full  of 
grace  in  love  ;  an  open-hearted,  accomplished  gentleman. 

This  personage,  whose  name  was  Prasildo,  happened  one 
day  to  be  of  a  party  with  Tisbina,  who  were  amusing  them- 
selves in  a  garden,  with  a  game  in  which  the  players  knelt 
down  with  their  faces  bent  on  one  another's  laps,  and  guessed 
who  it  was  that  struck  them.  The  turn  came  to  himself,  and 
he  knelt  down  at  the  lap  of  Tisbina ;  but  no  sooner  was  he 
there,  than  he  experienced  feelings  he  had  never  dreamed  of: 
and  instead  of  trying  to  guess  correctly,  took  all  the  pains  he 
could  to  remain  in  the  same  position.  These  feelings  pursued 
him  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  still  more  closely  at  night. 
He  did  nothing  but  think  and  sigh,  and  find  the  soft  feathers 
harder  than  any  stone.  Nor  did  he  get  better  as  time 
advanced.  His  once  favorite  pastime  of  hunting  now  ceased 
to  afford  him  any  delight.  Nothing  pleased  him  but  to  be 
giving  dinners  and  balls,  to  make  verses  and  sing  them  to  his 
lute,  and  to  joust  and  tourney  in  the  eyes  of  his  love,  dressed 
in  the  most  sumptuous  apparel. 

The  passion  which  had  thus  taken  possession  of  this  gen- 
tleman was  not  lost  upon  the  lady  for  want  of  her  knowing 
it.  A  mutual  acquaintance  was  always  talking  to  her  on  the 
subject,  but  to  no  purpose  ;  she  never  relaxed  her  pride  and 
dignity  for  a  moment.  The  lover  at  last  fell  ill ;  he  fairly 
wasted  away,  and  was  so  unhappy  that  he  gave  up  all  his 
feastings  and  entertainments.  The  only  solace  he  found  was 
in  a  solitary  wood,  in  which  he  used  to  plunge  himself  in 
order  to  give"  way  to  his  grief  and  lamentations.  It  happened 
one  day,  early  in  the  morning,  while  he  was  thus  occupied, 


2o8  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

that  Iroldo  came  into  the  wood  to  amuse  himself  with  bird- 
catching.  He  had  Tisbina  with  him  ;  and  as  they  were  com- 
ing along,  they  overheard  their  neighbor  during  one  of  his 
paroxysms,  and  stopped  to  listen  to  what  he  said. 

"Hear  me,"  exclaimed  he,  "ye  flowers  and  ye  woods. 
Hear  to  what  a  pass  of  wretchedness  I  am  come,  since  that 
cruel  one  will  hear  me  not.  Hear,  O  sun  that  hast  taken  away 
the  night  from  the  heavens,  and  you,  ye  stars,  and  thou  the 
departing  moon,  hear  the  voice  of  my  grief  for  the  last  time, 
for  exist  I  can  no  longer ;  my  death  is  the  only  way  left  me 
to  gratify  that  proud  beauty,  to  whom  it  has  pleased  Heaven 
to  give  a  cruel  heart  with  a  merciful  countenance.  Fain 
would  I  have  died  in  her  presence.  It  would  have  comforted 
me  to  see  her  pleased  even  with  that  proof  of  my  love.  But 
I  pray,  nevertheless,  that  she  may  never  know  it ;  since,  cruel 
as  she  is,  she  might  blame  herself  for  having  shown  a  scorn 
so  extreme ;  and  I  love  her  so,  I  would  not  have  her  pained 
for  all  her  cruelty.  Surely  I  shall  love  her  even  in  my 
grave." 

With  these  words,  turning  pale  with  his  own  mortal 
resolution,  Prasildo  drew  his  sword,  and  pronouncing  the 
name  of  Tisbina  more  than  once  with  a  loving  voice,  as 
though  its  very  sound  would  be  sufficient  to  waft  him  to  Para- 
dise, was  about  to  plunge  the  steel  into  his  bosom,  when  the 
lady  herself,  by  leave  of  her  husband,  whose  manly  visage 
was  all  in  tears  for  pity,  stood  suddenly  before  him. 

"  Prasildo,"  said  she,  "  if  you  love  me,  listen  to  me.  You 
have  often  told  me  that  you  do  so.  Now  prove  it.  I  happen 
to  be  threatened  with  nothing  less  than  the  loss  of  life  and 
honor.  Nothing  short  of  such  a  calamity  could  have  induced 
me  to  beg  of  you  the  service  I  am  going  to  request ;  since 
there  is  no  greater  shame  in  the  world  than  to  ask  favors  from 
those  to  whom  we  have  refused  them.  But  I  now  promise 
you,  that  if  you  do  what  I  desire,  your  love  shall  be  returned. 
I  give  you  my  word  for  it.  I  give  you  my  honor.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  wilds  of  Barbary  is  a  garden  which  has  a 
wall  of  iron.  It  has  four  gates.  Life  itself  keeps  one  ;  Death 
another ;  Poverty  the  third ;  the  fairy  of  Riches  the  fourth. 
He  who  goes  in  at  one  gate  must  go  out  at  the  other  opposite; 


ITALIAN   LITERATURE.  209 

and  in  the  midst  of  the  garden  is  a  tree,  tall  as  the  reach  of 
an  arrow,  which  produces  pearls  for  blossoms.  It  is  called 
the  Tree  of  Wealth,  and  has  fruit  of  emeralds  and  boughs  of 
gold.  I  must  have  a  bough  of  that  tree,  or  suffer  the  most 
painful  consequences.  Now,  'then,  if  you  love  me,  I  say, 
prove  it.  Prove  it,  and  most  assuredly  I  shall  love  you  in 
turn,  better  than  ever  you  loved  myself. ' ' 

What  need  of  saying  that  Prasildo,  with  haste  and  joy, 
undertook  to  do  all  that  she  required?  If  she  had  asked  the 
sun  and  stars,  and  the  whole  universe,  he  would  have  promised 
them.  Quitting  her  in  spite  of  his  love,  he  set  out  on  the 
journey  without  delay,  only  dressing  himself  before  he  left 
the  city  in  the  habit  of  a  pilgrim. 

Now  you  must  know,  that  Iroldo  and  his  lady  had  set 
Prasildo  on  that  adventure,  in  the  hope  that  the  great  dis- 
tance which  he  would  have  to  travel,  and  the  change  which 
it  might  assist  time  to  produce,  would  deliver  him  from  his 
passion.  At  all  events,  in  case  this  good  end  was  not  effected 
before  he  .arrived  at  the  garden,  they  counted  to  a  certainty 
on  his  getting  rid  of  it  when  he  did  ;  because  the  fairy  of  that 
garden,  which  was  called  the  Garden  of  Medusa,  was  of  such 
a  nature,  that  whosoever  did  but  look  on  her  countenance 
forgot  the  reason  for  his  going  thither ;  and  whoever  saluted, 
touched,  and  sat  down  to  converse  by  her  side,  forgot  all  that 
had  ever  occurred  in  his  lifetime. 

Away,  however,  on  his  steed  went  our  bold  lover  ;  all  alone, 
or  rather  with  lyove  for  his  companion ;  and  so,  riding  hard 
till  he  came  to  the  Red  Sea,  he  took  ship,  and  journeyed 
through  Egypt,  and  came  to  the  mountains  of  Barca,  where 
he  overtook  an  old  grey-headed  palmer. 

Prasildo  told  the  palmer  the  reason  of  his  corning,  and  the 
palmer  told  him  what  the  reader  has  heard  about  the  garden  : 
adding,  that  he  must  enter  by  the  gate  of  Poverty,  and  take 
no  arms  or  armor  with  him,  excepting  a  looking-glass  for  a. 
shield,  in  which  the  fairy  might  behold  her  beauty.  The  old 
man  gave  him  other  directions  necessary  for  his  passing  out 
of  the  gate  of  Riches ;  and  Prasildo,  thanking  him,  went  on, 
and  in  thirty  days  found  himself  entering  the  gardeo  with 
the  greatest  ease,  by  the  gate  of  Poverty, 
iv — 14 


210  LITERATURE  OF  ALI,  NATIONS. 


The  garden  looked  like  a  Paradise,  it  was  so  full  of  beauti- 
ful trees  and  flowers  and  fresh  grass.  Prasildo  took  care  to 
hold  the  shield  over  his  eyes,  that  he  might  avoid  seeing  the 
fairy  Medusa  ;  and  in  this  manner  guarding  his  approach,  he 
arrived  at  the  Golden  Tree.  The  fairy,  who  was  reclining 
against  the  trunk  of  it,  looked  up,  and  saw  herself  in  the 
glass.  Wonderful  was  the  effect  on  her.  Instead  of  her  own 
white-and-red  blooming  face,  she  beheld  that  of  a  dreadful 
serpent.  The  spectacle  made  her  take  to  flight  in  terror  ;  and 
the  lover,  finding  his  object  so  far  gained,  looked  freely  at  the 
tree,  climbed  it,  and  bore  away  a  bough. 

With  this  he  proceeded  to  the  gate  of  Riches.  It  was  all 
of  loadstone,  and  opened  with  a  great  noise.  But  he  passed 
through  it  happily,  for  he  made  the  fairy  who  kept  it  a  present 
of  half  the  bough  ;  and  so  he  issued  forth  out  of  the  garden, 
with  indescribable  joy. 

Behold  our  loving  adventurer  now  on  his  road  home. 
Every  step  of  the  way  appeared  to  him  a  thousand.  He  took 
the  road  of  Nubia  to  shorten  the  journey  ;  crossed  the  Arabian 
Gulf  with  a  breeze  in  his  favor  ;  and  traveling  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day,  arrived  one  fine  morning  in  Babylon. 

No  sooner  was  he  there  than  he  sent  to  tell  the  object  of 
his  passion  how  fortunate  he  had  been.  He  begged  her  to 
name  her  own  place  and  time  for  receiving  the  bough  at  his 
hands,  taking  care  to  remind  her  of  her  promise  ;  and  he 
could  not  help  adding,  that  he  should  die  if  she  broke  it. 

Terrible  was  the  grief  of  Tisbina  at  this  unlooked-for 
news.  She  threw  herself  on  her  couch  in  despair,  and 
bewailed  the  hour  she  was  born  .  '  '  What  on  earth  am  I  to 
do?"  cried  the  wretched  lady  ;  "  death  itself  is  no  remedy  for 
a  case  like  this,  since  it  is  only  another  mode  of  breaking  my 
word.  To  think  that  Prasildo  should  return  from  the  garden 
of  Medusa  !  Who  could  have  supposed  it  possible?  And  yet, 
in  truth,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  suppose  anything  impossible  to 
love!  O  my  husband!  little  didst  thou  think  what  thou 
thyself  advisedst  me  to  promise  !  '  ' 

The  husband  was  coming  that  moment  towards  the  room  ; 
and  overhearing  his  wife  grieving  in  this  distracted  manner, 
he  entered  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  On  learning  the 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  211 

cause  of  her  affliction,  lie  felt  as  though  he  should  have  died 
with  her  on  the  spot. 

"Alas!"  cried  he,  "that  it  should  be  possible  for  me  to 
be  miserable  while  I  am  so  dear  to  your  heart.  But  you 
know,  O  my  soul !  that  when  love  and  jealousy  come  together, 
the  torment  is  the  greatest  in  the  world.  Myself — myself, 
alas !  caused  the  mischief,  and  myself  alone  ought  to  suffer 
for  it.  You  must  keep  your  promise.  You  must  abide  by  the 
word  you  have  given,  especially  to  one  who  has  undergone 
so  much  to  perform  what  you  asked  him.  Sweet  face,  you 
must.  But  oh !  see  him  not  till  after  I  am  dead.  Let  For- 
tune do  with  me  what  she  pleases,  so  that  I  be  saved  from  a 
disgrace  like  that.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  in  death  to 
think  that  I  alone,  while  I  was  on  earth,  enjoyed  the  fond 
looking  of  that  lovely  face.  Nay,"  concluded  the  wretched 
husband,  u  I  feel  as  though  I  should  die  over  again,  if  I  could 
call  to  mind  in  my  grave  how  you  were  taken  from  me." 

Iroldo  became  dumb  for  anguish.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if 
his  very  heart  had  been  taken  out  of  his  breast.  Nor  was 
Tisbina  less  miserable.  She  was  as  pale  as  death,  and  could 
hardly  speak  to  him  or  bear  to  look  at  him.  At  length 
turning  her  eyes  upon  him,  she  said,  "And  do  you  believe  I 
could  make  my  poor  sorry  case  out  in  this  world  without 
Iroldo?  Can  he  bear,  himself,  to  think  of  leaving  his  Tis- 
bina? he  who  has  so  often  said,  that  if  he  possessed  heaven 
itself,  he  should  not  think  it  heaven  without  her?  O  dearest 
husband,  there  is  a  way  to  make  death  not  bitter  to  either  of 
us.  It  is  to  die  together.  I  must  only  exist  long  enough  to 
see  Prasildo  !  Death,  alas  !  is  in  that  thought ;  but  the  same 
death  will  release  us.  It  need  not  even  be  a  hard  death,  sav- 
ing our  misery.  There  are  poisons  so  gentle  in  their  deadli- 
ness,  that  we  need  but  faint  away  into  sleep,  and  so,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours,  be  delivered.  Our  misery  and  our 
folly  will  then  alike  be  ended." 

Iroldo  assenting,  clasped  his  wife  in  distraction ;  and  for 
a  long  time  they  remained  in  the  same  posture,  half  stifled 
with  grief,  and  bathing  one  another's  cheeks  with  their  tears. 
Afterwards  they  sent  quietly  for  the  poison  ;  and  the  apothe- 
cary made  up  a  preparation  in  a  cup,  without  asking  any 


212 


LITERATURE  OP  AU.  NATIONS. 


questions  ;  and  so  the  husband  and  wife  took  it.  Iroldo  drank 
first,  and  then  endeavored  to  give  the  cup  to  his  wife,  utter- 
ing not  a  word,  and  trembling  in  every  limb  ;  not  because  he 
was  afraid  of  death,  but  because  he  could  not  bear  to  ask 
her  to  share  it.  At  length,  turning  away  his  face  and  look- 
ing down,  he  held  the  cup  towards  her,  and  she  took  it 
with  a  chilled  heart  and  trembling  hand,  and  drank  the 
remainder  to  the  dregs.  Iroldo  then  covered  his  face  and 
head,  not  daring  to  see  her  depart  for  the  house  of  Prasildo  ; 
and  Tisbina,  with  pangs  bitterer  than  death,  left  him  in 
solitude. 


Tisbina,  accompanied  by  a  servant,  went  to  Prasildo,  who 
could  scarcely  believe  his  ears  when  he  heard  that  she  was  at 
the  door  requesting  to  speak  with  him.  He  hastened  down 
to  show  her  all  honor,  leading  her  from  the  door  into  a  room 
by  themselves ;  and  when  he  found  her  in  tears,  addressed 
her  in  the  most  considerate  and  subdued,  yet  still  not  unhappy, 
manner,  taking  her  confusion  for  bashfulness,  and  never 
dreaming  what  a  tragedy  had  been  meditated. 

Finding  at  length  that  her  grief  was  not  to  be  done  away, 
he  conjured  her  by  what  she  held  dearest  on  earth  to  let  him 
know  the  cause  of  it ;  adding  that  he  could  still  die  for  her 


ITAUAN   LITERATURE.  213 

sake,  if  his  death  would  do  her  any  service.  Tisbina  spoke 
at  these  words  ;  and  Prasildo  then  heard  what  he  did  not  wish 
to  hear.  "  I  am  in  your  hands,"  answered  she,  "while  I  am 
yet  alive.  I  arn  bound  to  my  word,  but  I  cannot  survive  the 
dishonor  which  it  costs  me,  nor,  above  all,  the  loss  of  the 
husband  of  my  heart.  You  also,  to  whose  eyes  I  have  been 
so  welcome,  must  be  prepared  for  my  disappearance  from  the 
earth.  Had  my  affections  not  belonged  to  another,  ungentle 
would  have  been  my  heart  not  to  have  loved  yourself,  who 
are  so  capable  of  loving;  but  (as  you  must  well  know)  to  love 
two  at  once  is  neither  fitting  nor  in  one's  power.  It  was  for 
that  reason  I  never  loved  you,  baron ;  I  was  only  touched 
with  compassion  for  you ;  and  hence  the  miseries  of  us  all. 
Before  this  day  closes,  I  shall  have  learned  the  taste  of  death.' ' 
And  without  further  preface  she  disclosed  to  him  how  she 
and  her  husband  had  taken  poison. 

Prasildo  was  struck  dumb  with  horror.  He  had  thought 
his  felicity  at  hand,  and  was  at  the  same  instant  to  behold  it 
gone  for  ever.  She  who  was  rooted  in  his  heart,  she  who 
carried  his  life  in  her  sweet  looks,  even  she  was  sitting  there 
before  him,  already,  so  to  speak,  dead.  ult  has  pleased 
neither  Heaven  nor  you,  Tisbina,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy 
young  man,  "to  put  my  best  feelings  to  the  proof.  Often 
have  two  lovers  perished  for  love  ;  the  world  will  now  behold 
a  sacrifice  of  three.  Oh,  why  did  you  not  make  a  request  to 
me  in  your  turn,  and  ask  me  to  free  you  from  your  promise  ? 
You  say  you  took  pity  on  me  !  Alas,  cruel  one,  confess  that 
you  have  killed  yourself,  in  order  to  kill  rne.  Yet  why? 
Never  did  I  think  of  giving  you  displeasure  ;  and  I  now  do 
what  I  would  have  done  at  any  time  to  prevent  it,  I  absolve 
you  from  your  oath.  Stay  or  go  this  instant,  as  it  seems 
best  to  you. ' ' 

A  stronger  feeling  than  compassion  moved  the  heart  of 
Tisbina  at  these  words.  "This  indeed,"  replied  she,  "I  feel 
to  be  noble  ;  and  truly  could  I  also  now  die  to  save  you.  But 
life  is  flitting ;  ^and  how  may  I  prove  my  regard  ? ' ' 

Prasildo,  who  had  in  good  earnest  resolved  that  three 
instead  of  two  should  perish,  experienced  such  anguish  at  the 
extraordinary  position  in  which  he  found  all  three,  that  even 


214  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

her  sweet  words  came  but  dimly  to  his  ears.  He  stood  like  a 
man  stupefied ;  then  begged  of  her  to  give  him  but  one  kiss, 
and  so  took  his  leave  without  further  ado,  only  intimating  that 
her  way  out  of  the  house  lay  before  her.  As  he  spake,  he 
removed  himself  from  her  sight. 

Tisbina  reached  home.  She  found  her  husband  with  his 
head  covered  up  as  she  left  him  ;  but  when  she  recounted 
what  had  passed,  and  the  courtesy  of  Prasildo,  and  how  he 
had  exacted  from  her  but  a  single  kiss,  Iroldo  got  up,  and 
removed  the  covering  from  his  face,  and  then  clasping  his 
hands,  and  raising  it  to  heaven,  he  knelt  with  grateful 
humility,  and  prayed  God  to  give  pardon  to  himself,  and 
reward  to  his  neighbor.  But  before  he  had  ended,  Tisbina 
sank  on  the  floor  in  a  swoon.  Her  weaker  frame  was  the  first 
to  undergo  the  effects  of  what  she  had  taken.  Iroldo  felt  icy 
chill  to  see  her,  albeit  she  seemed  to  sleep  sweetly.  Her 
aspect  was  not  at  all  like  death.  He  taxed  Heaven  with 
cruelty  for  treating  two  loving  hearts  so  hardly,  and  cried  out 
against  Fortune,  and  life,  and  Love  itself. 

Nor  was  Prasildo  happier  in  his  chamber.  He  also 
exclaimed  against  the  bitter  tyrant  "whom  men  call  Love ;" 
and  protested,  that  he  would  gladly  encounter  any  fate,  to  be 
delivered  from  the  worse  evils  of  his  false  and  qruel  ascendancy. 

But  his  lamentations  were  interrupted.  The  apothecary 
who  sold  the  potion  to  the  husband  and  wife  was  at  the  door 
below,  requesting  to  speak  with  him.  The  servants  at  first 
had  refused  to  carry  the  message  ;  but  the  old  man  persisting 
and  saying  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  entrance  for  him 
into  the  master's  chamber  was  obtained. 

"Noble  sir,"  said  the  apothecary,  "I  have  always  held  you 
in  love  and  reverence.  I  have  unfortunately  reason  to  fear 
that  somebody  is  desiring  your  death.  This  morning  a  hand- 
maiden of  the  lady  Tisbina  applied  to  me  for  a  secret  poison ; 
and  just  now  it  was  told  me,  that  the  lady  herself  had  been 
at  this  house.  I  am  old,  sir,  and  you  are  young ;  and  I  warn 
you  against  the  violence  and  jealousies  of  womankind.  Talk 
of  their  flames  of  love  !  Satan  himself  burn  them,  say  I,  for 
they  are  fit  for  nothing  better.  Do  not  be  too  much  alarmed, 
however,  this  time :  for  in  truth  I  gave  the  young  woman 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  215 

nothing  of  the  sort  that  she  asked  for,  but  only  a  draught  so 
innocent,  that  if  you  have  taken  it,  it  will  cost  you  but  four 
or  five  hours'  sleeep.  So,  in  God's  name,  give  up  the  whole 
foolish  sex  ;  for  you  may  depend  on  it,  that  in  this  city  of 
ours  there  are  ninety-nine  wicked  ones  among  them  to  one 
good. ' ' 

You  may  guess  how  Prasildo's  heart  revived  at  these 
words.  Truly  might  he  be  compared  to  flowers  in  sunshine 
after  rain ;  he  rejoiced  through  all  his  being,  and  displayed 
again  a  cheerful  countenance.  Hastily  thanking  the  old 
man,  he  lost  no  time  in  repairing  to  the  house  of  his  neigh- 
bors, and  telling  them  of  their  safety ;  and  you  may  guess 
how  the  like  joy  was  theirs. 

But  behold  a  wonder !  Iroldo  was  so  struck  with  the 
generosity  of  his  neighbor's  conduct  throughout  the  whole 
of  this  extraordinary  affair,  that  nothing  would  content  his 
grateful  though  ever-grieving  heart,  but  he  must  fairly  give 
up  Tisbina  after  all.  Prasildo,  to  do  him  justice,  resisted  the 
proposition  as  stoutly  as  he  could  ;  but  a  man's  powers  are  ill 
seconded  by  an  unwilling  heart ;  and  though  the  contest  was 
long  and  handsome,  as  is  customary  between  generous  natures, 
the  husband  adhered  firmly  to  his  intention.  In  short,  he 
abruptly  quitted  the  city,  declaring  that  he  would  never  again 
see  it,  and  so  left  his  wife  to  the  lover. 

RINALDO  PUNISHED  BY  CUPID. 

WHEN  to  the  leafy  wood  his  feet  were  brought, 
Towards  Merlin's  Fount  at  once  he  took  his  way  ; 

Unto  the  fount  that  changes  amorous  thought 
Journej^ed  the  Paladin  without  delay  ; 

But  a  new  sight,  the  which  he  had  not  sought, 
Caused  him  upon  the  path  his  feet  to  stay. 

Within  the  wood  there  is  a  little  close 

Full  of  pink  flowers,  and  white,  and  various : 

And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  naked  boy, 

Singing,  took  solace  with  surpassing  cheer ; 

Three  ladies  round  him,  as  around  their  joy, 
Danced  naked  in  the  light  so  soft  and  clear. 


2l6  LITERATURE   OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

No  sword,  tio  shield,  hath  been  his  wonted  toy ; 
Brown  are  his  eyes ;  yellow  his  curls  appear ; 
His  downy  beard  hath  scarce  begun  to  grow : 
One  saith  'tis  there,  and  one  might  answer,  No  ! 

With  violets,  roses,  flowers  of  every  dye, 

Baskets  they  filled  and  eke  their  beauteous  hands  : 

Then  as  they  dance  in  joy  and  amity, 
The  I^ord  of  Montalbano  near  them  stands : 

Whereat,  "  Behold  the  traitor !  "  loud  they  cry, 
Soon  as  they  mark  the  foe  within  their  bands ; 

' '  Behold  the  thief,  the  scorner  of  delight, 

Caught  in  the  trap  at  last  in  sorry  plight !  " 

Then  with  their  baskets  all  with  one  consent 

Upon  Rinaldo  like  a  tempest  bore : 
One  flings  red  roses,  one  with  violets  blent 

Showers  lilies,  hyacinths,  fast  as  she  can  pour : 
Each  flower  in  falling  with  strange  pain  hath  rent 

His  heart  and  pricked  his  marrow  to  the  core, 
lighting  a  flame  in  every  smitten  part, 
As  though  the  flowers  concealed  a  fiery  dart. 

The  boy  who,  naked,  coursed  along  the  sod, 
Emptied  his  basket  first,  and  then  began, 

Wielding  a  long-grown  leafy  lily  rod, 

To  scourge  the  helmet  of  the  tortured  man : 

No  aid  Rinaldo  found  against  the  god, 
But  fell  to  earth  as  helpless  children  can ; 

The  youth  who  saw  him  fallen,  by  the  feet 

Seized  him,  and  dragged  him  through  the  meadow  sweet. 

And  those  three  dames  had  each  a  garland  rare 
Of  roses ;  one  was  red  and  one  was  white : 

These  from  their  snowy  brows  and  foreheads  fair 
They  tore  in  haste,  to  beat  the  writhing  knight : 

In  vain  he  cried  and  raised  his  hands  in  prayer  ; 
For  still  they  struck  till  they  were  tired  quite : 

And  round  about  him  on  the  sward  they  went, 

Nor  ceased  from  striking  till  the  morn  was  spent. 

Nor  massy  cuirass,  nor  stout  plate  of  steel, 
Could  yield  defence  against  those  bitter  blows ; 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  217 

His  flesh  was  swollen  with  many  a  livid  weal 
Beneath  his  mail,  and  with  such  fiery  woes 

Inflamed  as  spirits  damned  in  hell  may  feel ; 
Yet  theirs,  upon  my  troth,  are  fainter  throes : 

Wherefore  that  Baron,  sore  and  scant  of  breath, 

For  pain  and  fear  was  well-nigh  brought  to  death. 

Nor  whether  they  were  gods  or  men  he  knew : 
Nor  prayer,  nor  courage,  nor  defence  availed, 

Till  suddenly  upon  their  shoulders  grew 

And  budded  wings  with  gleaming  gold  engrailed, 

Radiant  with  crimson,  white  and  azure  blue ; 
And  with  a  living  eye  each  plume  was  tailed, 

Not  like  a  peacock's  or  a  bird's,  but  bright 

And  tender  as  a  girl's  with  love's  delight. 

Then  after  small  delay  their  flight  they  took, 
And  one  by  one  soared  upward  to  the  sky, 

Reaving  Rinaldo  sole  beside  the  brook. 
Full  bitterly  that  Baron  'gan  to  cry, 

For  grief  and  dole  so  great  his  bosom  shook 
That  still  it  seemed  that  he  must  surely  die ; 

And  in  the  end  so  fiercely  raged  his  pain 

That  like  a  corpse  he  fell  along  the  plain. 

BAL,DASSARE  CASTIGLIONE. 

A  SINGLE  work  has  given  to  Castiglione  a  high  reputa- 
tion. His  treatise  "II  Cortegiano,"  "The  Courtier,"  written 
in  1514,  set  forth  in  elegant  style  the  ideal  gentleman  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  Italians  called  it  "the  book  of  gold."  It 
was  in  the  form  of  a  discussion  between  distinguished  gentle- 
men and  ladies  at  the  court  of  Urbino,  then  the  most  refined 
in  Italy.  The  theme  selected,  after  several  suggestions,  was, 
"What  Constitutes  a  Perfect  Courtier?"  Four  nights  are 
occupied  in  the  discussion,  a  principal  speaker  being  chosen 
for  each  night,  and  the  other  members  of  the  group  criticis- 
ing his  speech.  The  divisions  are  :  The  form  and  manner  of 
court  life ;  the  qualifications  of  a  courtier ;  the  accomplish- 
ments of  a  court  lady  ;  the  duty  of  a  prince.  The  discussion 
shows  the  adaptation  of  the  old  rules  of  the  Courts  of  I^ove 
to  more  modern  requirements, 


2l8  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

Baldassare  Castiglione  was  born  near  Mantua  in  1478,  and 
educated  at  Milan.  In  youth  lie  entered  the  service  of  Ludo- 
tdco  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  and  afterwards  was  attached  to 
the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino.  Castiglione  was  employed 
on  various  embassies,  and  visited  England  and  Spain.  Here 
he  was  made  Bishop  of  Avila  and  was  charged  with  settling 
the  dispute  between  Pope  Clement  VII.  and  the  Emperor 
Charles  V.  He  died  at  Toledo  in  1527.  It  is  acknowledged 
that  throughout  his  life  Castiglione  was  a  perfect  example  of 
the  model  that  he  drew. 

THE  COURTIER'S  ADDRESSES. 

THEY  who  are  too  precipitate  and  show  a  presumption, 
and,  as  it  were,  a  mad  pertinacity  in  their  addresses,  often 
miss  their  mark,  and  that  deservedly ;  for  it  is  always  dis- 
pleasing to  a  noble  lady  to  be  so  little  esteemed  as  that  any 
one  should,  without  due  respect,  require  her  love  before  he  has 
done  her  due  service.  In  my  opinion,  the  way  that  a  courtier 
should  declare  his  love  to  his  mistress  is  by  signs  and  tokens 
rather  than  by  words.  For  without  doubt  more  love  is  shown 
in  a  sigh,  or  in  some  mark  of  timidity  or  reverence,  than  can 
be  shown  in  a  thousand  words  ;  and  the  eyes  may  afterwards 
be  made  the  faithful  messengers  of  the  heart,  because  they 
frequently  declare,  with  more  eloquence,  the  inward  passion, 
than  can  open  speech,  a  letter,  or  any  other  kind  of  message. 

LUIGI  DA  PORTO. 

SHAKESPEARE  drew  more  than  one  plot  from  the  Italian 
novelists,  but  none  more  noteworthy  than  that  of  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet."  For  this  he  was  indebted  to  Luigi  da  Porto,  a 
poet,  scholar,  and  novelist  of  Italy  during  the  first  quarter  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  "  La  Giulietta  "  is  the  sole  story  that 
survives  from  Porto's  pen,  although  he  is  said  to  have  pro- 
duced several  other  novels.  Porto  was  of  noble  descent,  and 
fought  for  the  republic  of  Venice  in  the  wars  connected  with 
the  League  of  Cambray.  A  wound  crippled  him  and  gave 
him  to  literature.  He  died  in  1529,  at  the  age  of  forty-four. 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  219 

His  single  story  was  based  on  a  previous  tale  by  Massuccio 
Salernitano,  and  it  may  serve  to  show  how  far  the  dramatist, 
who  has  not,  indeed,  improved  upon  his  model  of  Massuccio, 
has  fallen  short  of  the  pathetic  beauty  of  L,uigi  da  Porto's 
story  in  its  conclusion.  It  is  only  in  the  latter  that  we  meet 
with  the  affecting  circumstance  of  Juliet  rising  from  her 
trance  before  the  death  of  Romeo.  It  is  this  Italian  story 
which  has  since  suggested  the  improvement  that  has  been 
adopted  on  the  stage  at  the  close  of  the  tragedy,  where  Romeo 
does  not  expire  before  the  revival  of  Juliet.  The  entire  story 
is  indelibly  linked  in  modern  memory  with  the  Italian  family 
feuds,  has  been  actually  traced  to  a  Greek  romance,  and  was 
once  historically  treated  as  a  real  event. 

LOVE  IN  THE  TOMB. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  day  after  Juliet's  interment  Romeo 
arrived  at  Verona  without  being  discovered  by  any  one.  The 
game  night,  as  soon  as  the  city  became  hushed,  he  resorted  to 
the  convent  of  the  Frati  Minori,  where  the  tombs  of  the 
Cappelletti  lay.  The  church  was  situated  in  the  Cittadella, 
where  the  monks  at  that  time  resided,  although,  for  some  rea- 
son, they  have  since  left  it  for  the  suburb  of  San  Zeno,  now 
called  Santo  Bernardino,  and  the  Cittadella  was  formerly,  in- 
deed, inhabited  by  San  Francesco  himself.  Near  the  outer 
walls  of  this  place  there  were  then  placed  a  number  of  large 
monuments,  such  as  we  see  round  many  churches,  and  beneath 
one  of  these  was  the  ancient  sepulchre  of  all  the  Capelletti,  in 
which  the  beautiful  bride  then  lay.  Romeo  approaching  near 
not  long  after  midnight,  and  possessing  great  strength, 
removed  the  heavy  covering  by  force,  and  with  some  wooden 
ptakes  which  he  had  brought  with  him  he  propped  it  up  to 
prevent  it  from  closing  again  until  he  wished  it,  and  he  then 
entered  the  tomb  and  replaced  the  covering.  The  lamp  he 
carried  cast  a  lurid  light  around,  while  his  eyes  wandered  in 
search  of  the  loved  object,  which,  bursting  open  the  living 
tomb,  he  quickly  found.  When  he  beheld  the  features  of  the 
beautiful  Juliet,  now  mingled  with  a  heap  of  lifeless  dust  and 
bones,  a  sudden  tide  of  sorrow  sprung  into  his  eyes,  and 


220  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

amidst  bitter  sobs  he  thus  spoke  :  "O  eyes,  which  while  our 
loves  to  Heaven  were  dear,  shone  sweetly  upon  mine  !  O 
sweeter  mouth,  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  so  fondly 
kissed  by  me  alone,  and  rich  in  honeyed  words  !  O  bosom,  in 
which  my  whole  heart  lay  treasured  up,  alas  1  all  closed  and 
mute  and  cold  I  find  ye  now  !  My  hapless  wife,  what  hath 
love  done  for  thee,  but  led  thee  hither?  And  why  so  soon 
perish  two  wretched  lovers?  I  had  not  looked  for  this  when 
hope  and  passion  first  whispered  of  other  things.  But  I  have 
lived  to  witness  even  this  !"  and  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her 
mouth  and  bosom,  mingling  his  kisses  with  his  tears.  "Walls 
of  the  dead  !"  he  cried,  "why  fall  ye  not  around  me  and 
crush  me  into  dust  ?  Yet,  as  death  is  in  the  power  of  all,  it 
is  a  despicable  thing  to  wish,  yet  fear  it,  too."  Then  taking 
out  the  poison  from  under  his  vest,  he  thus  continued  :  "  By 
what  strange  fatality  am  I  brought  to  die  in  the  sepulchre  of 
my  enemies,  some  of  whom  this  hand  hath  slain  ?  But  as  it  is 
pleasant  to  die  near  those  we  love,  now,  my  beloved,  let  me  die ! ' ' 
Then,  seizing  the  fatal  vial,  he  poured  its  whole  contents  into 
his  frame,  and  catching  the  fair  body  of  Juliet  in  his  arms  in 
a  wild  embrace,  "  Still  so  sweet, "  he  cried,  "  dear  limbs,  mine, 
only  mine  !  And  if  yet  thy  pure  spirit  live,  my  Juliet,  let  it 
look  from  its  seat  of  bliss  to  witness  and  forgive  my  cruel 
death  ;  as  I  could  not  delighted  live  with  thee,  it  is  not  for- 
bidden me  with  thee  to  die,"  and  winding  his  arms  about  her 
he  awaited  his  final  doom. 

The  hour  was  now  arrived  when,  the  vital  powers  of 
the  slumbering  lady  reviving  and  subduing  the  icy  cold 
ness  of  the  poison,  she  should  awake.  Therefore  while  still 
straitly  folded  in  the  last  embraces  of  Romeo,  she  suddenly 
recovered  her  senses,  and,  uttering  a  deep  sigh,  she  cried, 
"Alas!  where  am  I?  in  whose  arms?  whose  kisses?  Oh,  un- 
bind me,  wretch  that  I  am  !  Base  friar,  is  it  thus  you  keep 
your  word  to  Romeo,  thus  lead  me  to  his  arms?"  Great  was 
her  husband's  surprise  to  feel  Juliet  alive  in  his  embrace. 
Recalling  the  idea  of  Pygmalion,  "  Do  you  know  me,  sweet 
wife?  "  he  cried.  "  It  is  your  love,  your  Romeo,  hither  come 
to  die  with  you.  I  came  alone  and  secretly  from  Mantua  to 
find  your  place  of  rest."  Finding  herself  within  the  sepul- 


ITALIAN   LITERATURE.  221 

and  in  the  arms  of  Roineo,  Juliet  would  not  at  first  give 
credit  to  her  senses ;  but,  springing  out  of  his  arms,  gazed  a 
moment  eagerly  on  his  face,  and  the  next  fell  on  his  neck 
with  a  torrent  of  tears  and  kisses.  ' '  O  Romeo,  Romeo,  what 
madness  brings  you  hither?  Were  not  my  letters  which  I 
sent  you  by  the  friar  enough  to  tell  you  of  my  feigned  death, 
and  that  I  should  shortly  be  restored  to  you?  "  The  wretched 
youth,  aware  of  the  whole  calamity,  then  gave  loose  to  his 
despair.  "  Beyond  all  other  griefs  that  lovers  ever  bore,  Ro- 
meo, thy  lot  has  been  !  My  life,  my  soul,  I  never  had  thy 
letters!"  And  he  told  her  the  piteous  tale  which  he  had 
heard  from  the  lips  of  her  servant,  and  that,  concluding  she 
was  dead,  he  had  hastened  to  keep  her  company  and  had 
already  drunk  the  deadly  draught.  At  these  last  words  his 
unhappy  bride,  uttering  a  wild  scream,  began  to  beat  her 
breast  and  tear  her  hair,  and  then  in  a  state  of  distraction  she 
threw  herself  by  the  side  of  Romeo,  already  lying  on  the 
ground,  and  pouring  over  him  a  deluge  of  tears,  imprinted 
her  last  kisses  on  his  lips.  All  pale  and  trembling,  she  cried, 
"O  my  Romeo!  will  you  die  in  my  sight,  and  I,  too,  the 
occasion  of  your  death  ?  Must  I  live  even  a  moment  after 
you  ?  Ah,  would  that  I  could  give  my  life  for  yours  ?  Would 
that  I  alone  might  die?  "  In  a  faint  and  dying  tone  her  hus- 
band replied,  "If  my  love  and  truth  were  ever  dear  to  you, 
my  Juliet,  live  ;  for  my  sake,  live ;  for  it  is  sweet  to  know 
that  you  will  then  be  often  thinking  of  him  who  now  dies  for 
you,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  yours."  "Die!  yes!  you 
die  for  the  death  which  in  me  was  only  feigned  !  What,  there- 
fore, should  I  do  for  this,  your  real,  cruel  death?  I  only 
grieve  that  I  have  no  means  of  accompanying  you,  and  hate 
myself  that  I  must  linger  on  earth  till  I  obtain  them.  But  it 
shall  not  be  long  before  the  wretch  who  caused  your  death 
shall  follow  you  ; ' '  and  uttering  these  words  with  pain,  she 
swooned  away  upon  his  body.  On  again  reviving,  she  felt 
she  was  catching  the  last  breath,  which  now  came  thick  and 
fast,  from  the  breast  of  her  husband. 


VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

THIS  gifted  lady  was  the  daughter  of  Fa- 
brizio  Colonna,  grand  constable  of  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 
She  was  born  in  1490  and  died  in  1547.  Michael  Angelo 
declared  that  before  he  knew  her  he  was  a  half-finished  statue 
to  which  her  chisel  gave  form.  One  result  of  the  great  sculp- 
tor's admiration  for  her  is  that  he  turned  poet  himself  and 
became  a  noble  Petrarchist.  Most  of  Vittoria's  own  poetry 
is  dedicated  to  her  husband,  Francisco  D'Avalos,  son  of  the 
Marquis  of  Pescara,  to  whom  she  was  betrothed  when  only 
four  years  old  at  the  instance  of  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  and 
to  whom  she  was  married  at  the  age  of  seventeen  after  she 
had  refused  a  duke  of  Savoy.  In  1511  Francisco  offered  his 
sword  to  the  Holy  League,  and  during  the  succeeding  long 
exile  of  campaigning  the  young  wife  and  husband  corre- 
sponded in  passionate  verse  and  prose.  Pescara  became  one 
of  Charles  V.'s  bravest  captains.  He  was  offered  the  crown  of 
Naples  if  he  would  join  the  emperor's  enemies,  but  Vittoria 
kept  him  from  that  treason.  She  was  hastening  to  his  side 
when  she  learned  of  his  death  at  Milan  from  his  wounds. 
Michael  Angelo  in  his  sixty-fourth  year  met  this  sweet  Italian 
woman  at  Rome  and  became  a  devoted  admirer.  He  made 
drawings  for  her,  wrote  sonnets  to  her  and  spent  hours  in  her 
charming  society.  She  removed  to  Orvieto  in  1541,  and 
afterwards  to  Viterbo,  but  the  great  sculptor  continued  to 
visit  her.  The  young  widow  meanwhile  composed  a  number 
of  "Rime  Spirituali."  Her  elegiac  and  her  amatory  poems 
do  not  reveal  any  great  poetic  genius ;  but  they  gain  note 
from  her  sex  and  personality. 

222 


COPYRIGHT,     1900 


J.     J.     LEFEBVRE,     PlNX 


VITTORIA    COLONNA 


ITALIAN   LITERATURE.  223 


A  BRANCH  OF  THE  VINE. 

FATHER  of  heaven  !  if  by  Thy  mercy's  grace 
A  living  branch  I  am  of  that  true  Vine 
Which  spreads  o'er  all, — and  would  we  did  resign 

Ourselves  entire  by  faith  to  its  embrace ! — 

In  me  much  drooping,  Lord,  Thine  eye  will  trace, 
Caused  by  the  shade  of  these  rank  leaves  of  mine, 
Unless  in  season  due  Thou  dost  refine 

The  humor  gross,  and  quicken  its  dull  pace. 

So  cleanse  me,  that,  abiding  e'er  with  Thee, 
I  feed  me  hourly  with  the  heavenly  dew, 
And  with  my  falling  tears  refresh  the  root. 

Thou  saidst,  and  thou  art  truth,  thou'dst  with  me  be 
Then  willing  come,  that  I  may  bear  much  fruit, 
And  worthy  of  the  stock  on  which  it  grew. 


HEAVENLY  UNION. 

BLEST  union,  that  in  heaven  was  ordained 
In  wondrous  manner,  to  yield  peace  to  man, 
Which  by  the  spirit  divine  and  mortal  frame 
Is  joined  with  sacred  and  with  love-strong  tie! 
I  praise  the  beauteous  work, -its  author  great; 
Yet  fain  would  see  it  moved  by  other  hope, 
By  other  zeal,  before  I  change  this  form, 
Since  I  no  longer  may  enjoy  it  here. 
The  soul,  imprisoned  in  this  tenement, 
Its  bondage  hates ;  and  hence,  distressed,  it  can 
Neither  live  here,  nor  fly  where  it  desires. 
My  glory  then  will  be  to  see  me  joined 
With  the  bright  sun  that  lightened  all  my  path ; 
For  in  his  life  alone  I  learned  to  live. 


MICHEIv  ANGELO  BUONARROTI. 

SUPREME  in  the  realm  of  art  as  painter, 
sculptor  and  architect,  Michel  Angelo 
claims  also  a  place  in  the  republic  of  letters.  The  greatest 
Christian  church,  with  its  marvelous  dome,  is  his  eternal 
monument.  His  sculpture  strove  to  embody  a  meaning  which 
belongs  more  directly  to  the  wider  region  of  poetry.  His  life 
was  marred  by  variances  with  successive  popes,  which  com- 
pelled him  to  waste  precious  time  in  performing  work  for 
which  inferior  men  were  competent,  while  opportunity  was 
denied  him  to  execute  his  own  sublime  plans.  Yet  in  spite  of 
all  obstacles  his  Titanic  genius  struggled  on  to  the  accomp- 
lishment of  masterpieces  which  remain  to  baffle  the  ingenuity 
of  critics  and  to  challenge  the  admiration  of  the  world. 

Michel  Angelo  Buonarroti  was  born  of  noble  family  in 
the  castle  of  Caprese  in  Tuscany  in  March,  1475.  His  first 
training  was  in  the  academy  founded  by  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent at  Florence,  and  he  gained  the  favor  of  that  potentate. 
Statues  and  bas-reliefs  still  remain  in  Florence  to  attest  his 
youthful  skill.  In  the  flush  of  his  manhood  he  was  called 
to  Rome  by  the  warlike  pontiff,  Julius  II.,  and  by  his  orders 
commenced  the  pope's  tomb,  which,  partly  owing  to  the 
quarrel  of  these  two  proud,  imperious  natures,  was  never 
completed  in  its  original  grandeur.  The  frescoes  of  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  in  the  Vatican,  showing  the  prophets  and  heroes 
and  striking  episodes  of  sacred  Scripture,  are  the  chief 
witness  of  Michel  Angelo' s  ability  as  a  painter.  The  sub- 
limity of  his  conceptions  is  equalled  only  by  the  power  and 
facility  with  which  they  are  executed.  The  luxurious  Leo 
X.,  in  spite  of  his  love  of  art,  wantonly  neglected  the  greatest 

224 


ITALIAN   LITERATURE.  225 

genius  of  his  age,  and  assigned  to  him  unworthy  tasks.  Paul 
III.  recalled  the  master  to  suitable  work  and  appointed  him 
architect  of  St.  Peter's  church,  which  he  had  suggested  long 
before.  He  formed  the  model  for  the  dome,  though  he  did 
not  live  to  see  it  completed.  He  died  in  February,  1564. 

It  was  his  admiration  and  affection  for  Vittoria  Colonna 
which  led  the  great  master  of  the  plastic  arts  to  express  his 
thoughts  in  verse  worthy  of  his  fame.  It  was  not  until  his 
sixtieth  year  that  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  this  gifted, 
pious  woman ;  thenceforth  until  her  death  in  1 547,  her 
friendship  was  the  great  solace  of  his  life.  Previously  he  had 
been  stern  and  solitary  in  disposition ;  now  in  old  age  the 
tenderness  of  his  heart  was  revealed.  His  passion  was  per- 
fectly pure,  and  while  it  inspired  him  to  sing  her  praises  and 
to  celebrate  Platonic  love,  it  found  expression  also  in  mystic 
songs  relating  to  the  Christian  religion  and  to  the  art  which 
had  heretofore  dominated  his  mind.  Though  his  paintings 
(apart  from  his  frescoes)  have  been  lost  in  the  ravages  of  time, 
his  sonnets  and  lyrics,  thrown  off  amid  the  pressure  of  work, 
remain  to  win  new  admiration  for  the  Olympian  Zeus  of 
Christian  art. 

ON  DANTE. 

FROM  heaven  his  spirit  came,  and  robed  in  clay, 
The  realms  of  justice  and  of  mercy  trod : 
Then  rose  a  living  man  to  gaze  on  God, 

That  he  might  make  the  truth  as  clear  as  day. 

For  that  pure  star,  that  brightened  with  his  ray 
The  undeserving  nest  where  I  was  born, 
The  whole  wide  world  would  be  a  prize  to  scorn  ; 

None  but  his  Maker  can  due  guerdon  pay. 

I  speak  of  Dante,  whose  high  work  remains 
Unknown,  unhonored  by  that  thankless  brood, 
Who  only  to  just  men  deny  their  wage. 

Were  I  but  he !     Born  for  like  lingering  pains, 
Against  his  exile  coupled  with  his  good 

I'd  gladly  change  the  world's  best  heritage, 
iv— 15 


226  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


THE  MODEL  AND  THE  STATUE. 

(To  Vittoria  Colonna.) 

WHEN  that  which  is  divine  in  us  doth  try 

To  shape  a  face,  both  brain  and  hand  unite 
To  give,  from  a  mere  model  frail  and  slight. 

Life  to  the  stone  by  Art's  free  energy. 

Thus  too  before  the  painter  dares  to  ply 

Paint-brush  or  canvas,  he  is  wont  to  write 
Sketches  on  scraps  of  paper,  and  invite 

Wise  minds  to  judge  his  figured  history. 

So,  born  a  model  rude  and  mean  to  be 

Of  my  poor  self,  I  gain  a  nobler  birth, 
Lady,  from  you,  you  fountain  of  all  worth ! 

Each  overplus  and  each  deficiency 

You  will  make  good.     What  penance  then  is  due. 
For  my  fierce  heat,  chastened  and  taught  by  you  ? 

LOVE  THE  LIGHT-GIVER. 

(To  Tommaso  de  Cavalieri.) 

WITH  your  fair  eyes  a  charming  light  I  see, 

For  which  my  own  blind  eyes  would  peer  in  vain  ,* 
Stayed  by  your  feet,  the  burden  I  sustain 

Which  my  lame  feet  find  all  too  strong  for  me ; 

Wingless  upon  your  pinions  forth  I  fly; 

Heavenward  your  spirit  stirreth  me  to  strain ; 
E'en  as  you  will,  I  blush  and  blanch  again, 

Freeze  in  the  sun,  burn  'neath  a  frosty  sky. 

Your  will  includes  and  is  the  lord  of  mine  ; 

Life  to  my  thoughts  within  your  heart  is  given ; 
My  words  begin  to  breathe  upon  your  breath ; 

Like  to  the  moon  am  I,  that  cannot  shine 
Alone ;  for  lo !  our  eyes  see  naught  in  heaven 
Save  what  the  living  sun  illumineth. 

HEAVENLY  AND  EARTHLY  LOVE. 

LOVE  is  not  always  harsh  and  deadly  sin, 

When  love  for  boundless  beauty  makes  us  pine ; 
The  heart,  by  love  left  soft  and  infantine, 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  227 

Will  let  the  shafts  of  God's  grace  enter  in. 
Love  wings  and  wakes  the  soul,  stirs  her  to  win 

Her  flight  aloft,  nor  e'er  to  earth  decline; 

'Tis  the  first  step  that  leads  her  to  the  shrine 

Of  Him  who  slakes  the  thirst  that  burns  within. 
The  love  of  that  whereof  I  speak  ascends  : 
Woman  is  different  far  ;  the  love  of  her 

But  ill  befits  a  heart  manly  and  wise. 
The  one  love  soars,  the  other  earthward  tends  ; 
The  soul  lights  this,  while  that  the  senses  stir  ; 

And  still  lust's  arrow  at  base  quarry  flies. 

AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 


might  I  in  those  days  so  fortunate, 
What  time  the  sun  lightened  my  path  above, 
Have  soared  from  earth  to  heaven,  raised  by  her  love 

Who  winged  my  laboring  soul  and  sweetened  fate. 

That  sun  hath  set,  and  I  with  hope  elate 

Who  deemed  that  those  bright  days  would  never  move, 
Find  that  my  thankless  soul,  deprived  thereof, 

Declines  to  death,  while  heaven  still  bars  the  gate. 

Love  lent  me  wings  ;  my  path  was  like  a  stair  ; 
A  lamp  unto  my  feet,  that  sun  was  given  ; 
And  death  was  safety  and  great  joy  to  find. 

But  dying  now,  I  shall  not  climb  to  heaven, 

Nor  can  mere  memory  cheer  my  heart's  despair  — 
What  help  remains  when  hope  is  left  behind  ? 

LAMENT  FOR  LIFE  WASTED. 

AH  me  !  Ah  me  !  whene'er  I  think 

Of  my  past  years,  I  find  that  none 
Among  those  many  years,  alas,  was  mine  ; 
False  hopes  and  longings  vain  have  made  me  pine, 
With  tears,  sighs,  passions,  fires,  upon  life's  brink. 

Of  mortal  loves  I  have  known  every  one. 

Full  well  I  feel  it  now  ;  lost  and  undone, 

From  truth  and  goodness  banished  far  away, 

I  dwindle  day  by  day. 

Longer  the  shade,  more  short  the  sunbeams  grow  ; 
While  I  am  near  to  falling,  faint  and  low. 


GIORGIO  VASARL 

As  the  biographer  of  the  famous  artists 
of  Italy,  Giorgio  Vasari  (1511-1574),  of 
Arezzo,  must  receive  high  praise.  He  was 
a  pupil  of  the  great  Michel  Angelo  and  of  Andrea  del  Sarto. 
He  was  aided  by  the  Medici  princes.  In  1529  he  visited 
Rome  and  studied  the  works  of  Raphael  and  his  school.  His 
own  paintings,  although  admired  in  the  sixteenth  century,  are 
feeble  parodies  of  Michel  Angelo.  He  painted  the  wall  and 
ceiling  frescoes  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  in  Florence.  He 
amassed  a  fortune  by  his  art,  and  rose  to  the  supreme  office 
of  gonfaloniere  of  his  native  town.  He  was  singularly  free 
from  vanity  and  able  to  appreciate  the  works  of  others — even 
Cimabue  and  Giotto.  Vasari  also  had  a  keen  eye  for  charac- 
ter, and  he  has  left  us  as  superb  prose  portraits  of  the  old 
masters  of  Italian  art  as  any  brush  portraits  by  Raphael, 
Rembrandt  or  Van  Dyke.  His  master-piece  of  biography  was 
published  (1550)  under  the  title,  "Delle  Vite  de'  piu  Eccel- 
lenti  Pittori,  Scultori,  ed  Architettori."  It  was  dedicated  to 
his  patron  Cosiino  de'  Medici. 


BUFFALMACCO   THE  JESTING   PAINTER. 

BUONAMICO  DI  CRISTOFANO,  nicknamed  Buffalmacco,  was 
a  pupil  of  Andrea  Tafi,  and  has  been  celebrated  as  a  jester  by 
Boccaccio.  Franco  Sacchetti  also  tells  how,  when  Buffal- 
macco was  still  a  boy  with  Andrea,  his  master  had  the  habit, 
when  the  nights  were  long,  of  getting  up  before  day  to  work, 
and  calling  his  boys.  This  was  displeasing  to  Buonarnico, 
who  had  to  rise  in  the  middle  of  his  best  sleep,  and  he  con- 
sidered how  he  might  prevent  Andrea  from  getting  up  before 
228 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  229 

day  to  work,  and  this  was  what  occurred  to  him.  Having 
found  thirty  great  beetles  in  an  ill-kept  cellar,  he  fastened  on 
each  of  their  backs  a  little  candle,  and  at  the  hour  when 
Andrea  was  used  to  rise,  he  put  them  one  by  one  through  a 
hole  in  the  door  into  Andrea's  chamber,  having  first  lighted 
the  candles.  His  master  awaking  at  the  hour  for  calling 
BufFalmacco,  and  seeing  the  lights,  was  seized  with  terror  and 
began  to  tremble  like  a  fearful  old  man  as  he  was,  and  to  say 
his  prayers  and  repeat  the  psalms ;  and  at  last,  putting  his 
head  under  the  clothes,  he  thought  no  more  that  night  of 
calling  Baffalrnacco,  but  lay  trembling  with  fear  till  daybreak. 
The  morning  being  come,  he  asked  Buonamico  if,  like  him, 
he  had  seen  more  than  a  thousand  devils.  Buonamico  an- 
swered, "No,"  for  he  had  kept  his  eyes  closed,  and  wondered 
he  had  not  been  called.  "What !  "  said  Tafi,  "  I  had  some- 
thing else  to  think  of  than  painting,  and  I  am  resolved  to  go 
into  another  house."  The  next  night,  although  Buonamico 
put  only  three  beetles  into  Tafi's  chamber,  yet  he,  from  the 
last  night's  terror  and  the  fear  of  those  few  devils,  could  get 
no  sleep  at  all,  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  left  the  house  de- 
termined never  to  return,  and  it  took  a  great  deal  of  good 
counsel  to  make  him  change  his  mind.  At  last  Buonamico 
brought  the  priest  to  him,  to  console  him.  And  Tafi  and 
Buonamico  discussing  the  matter,  Buonamico  said  :  "I  have 
always  heard  say  that  demons  are  the  greatest  enemies  of  God, 
and  consequently  they  ought  to  be  the  chief  adversaries  of 
painters,  because  not  only  do  we  always  make  them  hideous, 
but  we  also  never  cease  making  saints  on  all  the  walls,  and  so 
cause  men  in  despite  of  the  devils  to  become  more  and  more 
devout.  So  these  devils  being  enraged  against  us,  as  they 
have  greater  power  by  night  than  by  day,  they  come  playing 
us  these  tricks,  and  it  will  be  worse  if  this  custom  of  getting 
up  early  is  not  quite  given  up."  With  such  words  BufTal- 
macco  managed  the  matter,  what  the  priest  said  helping 
him  ;  so  that  Tafi  left  off  getting  up  early,  and  the  devils  no 
longer  went  about  the  Ijouse  at  night  with  candles.  But  not 
many  months  after,  Tafi,  drawn  by  the  desire  of  gain,  and 
having  forgotten  his  fears,  began  afresh  to  get  up  early  and  to 
call  Buffalmacco  ;  whereon  the  beetles  began  again  to  appear, 


230  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

until  he  was  forced  by  liis  fears  to  give  it  up  entirely,  being 
earnestly  counseled  to  do  so  by  the  priest.  And  the  matter 
being  noised  abroad  in  the  city  for  a  time,  neither  Tafi  nor 
any  other  painter  ventured  to  get  up  at  night  to  work. 

While  painting  the  church  of  the  convent  of  Faenza,  at 
Florence,  Buffalmacco,  who  was  very  careless  and  negligent 
in  his  dress,  as  in  other  things,  did  not  always  wear  his  hood 
and  mantle,  as  was  the  fashion  at  the  time  •  and  the  nuns, 
watching  him  through  the  screen  they  had  erected,  began  to 
complain  that  it  did  not  please  them  to  see  him  in  his  doub- 
let. At  last,  as  he  always  appeared  in  the  same  fashion,  they 
began  to  think  that  he  was  only  some  boy  employed  in  mix- 
ing colors ;  and  they  gave  him  to  understand,  through  their 
abbess,  that  they  should  prefer  to  see  his  master,  and  not 
always  him.  To  this  Buonamico  answered  good-humoredly 
that  when  the  master  came  he  would  let  them  know,  under- 
standing, nevertheless,  how  little  confidence  they  had  in  him. 
Then  he  took  a  stool,  and  placed  upon  it  another,  and  on  the 
top  he  put  a  pitcher  or  water-jug,  and  fastened  a  hood  on  the 
handle,  and  covered  up  the  rest  of  the  jug  with  a  cloak,  fasten- 
ing it  well  behind  the  tables ;  and  having  fixed  a  pencil  in 
the  spout  of  the  jug,  he  went  away.  The  nuns  coming  again 
to  see  the  picture  through  a  hole  that  they  had  made  in  the 
screen,  saw  the  supposed  master  in  his  fine  attire,  and  not 
doubting  that  he  was  working  with  all  his  might,  doing  very 
different  work  from  what  that  boy  did,  for  several  days  were 
quite  content.  At  last,  being  desirous  to  see  what  fine  things 
the  master  had  done  in  the  last  fortnight  (during  which  time 
Buonamico  had  not  been  there  at  all),  one  night,  thinking  he 
was  gone,  they  went  to  see  his  picture,  and  were  overcome 
with  confusion  when  one  more  bold  than  the  rest  detected  the 
solemn  master,  who  during  the  fortnight  had  done  no  work 
at  all.  But,  acknowledging  that  he  had  only  treated  them  as 
they  deserved,  and  that  the  work  which  he  had  done  was 
worthy  of  praise,  they  sent  their  steward  to  call  Buonamico 
back ;  and  he  with  great  laughter  went  back  to  his  work, 
letting  them  see  the  difference  between  men  and  water-jugs, 
and  that  it  does  not  always  do  to  judge  a  man's  work  by  his 
clothes. 


BENVENUTO 


of  the  most  famous  autobiog- 
raphies in  the  literature  of  the  world  is 
that  of  Benveuuto  Cellini,  of  Florence 
(1500-1569).  He  was  a  contemporary  of  Vasari,  and  an  artist 
like  him.  Cellini's  father  was  a  musician  and  maker  of  instru- 
ments, but  Benvenuto  early  desired  to  become  a  goldsmith. 
He  became  skilled  in  all  the  mysteries  of  that  craft.  He  also 
practised  flute-playing,  and  was  one  of  Pope  Clement  VII.  's 
court  musicians.  For  this  Pope's  cope  he  made  a  mag- 
nificent button.  His  greatest  achievement  in  art  was  the 
bronze  group  of  Perseus  holding  the  head  of  Medusa,  which 
was  placed  in  front  of  the  old  ducal  palace  at  Florence,  —  "  a 
work,"  as  has  been  declared,  "full  of  the  fire  of  genius  and 
the  grandeur  of  a  terrible  beauty  ;  one  of  the  most  typical 
and  unforgettable  monuments  of  the  Italian  Renaissance." 

But  it  is  Cellini  the  adventurer,  the  duellist,  the  .warrior, 
the  romantic  hero  of  amours,  who  has  become  most  famous. 
His  violent  temper  early  led  him  into  quarrels  and  even  homi- 
cide. He  was  obliged  to  escape  in  disguise  after  one  such 
episode.  At  the  sack  of  Rome  by  the  Constable  de  Bourbon, 
Cellini  himself  —  if  we  believe  his  own  tale  —  shot  the  constable 
dead  and  afterwards  wounded  the  Prince  of  Orange.  Among 
other  exploits,  he  avenged  a  brother's  murder  by  slaying  the 
slayer.  He  was  thrown  into  the  castle  of  Saint  Angelo  on 
the  charge  of  having  embezzled  during  the  war  the  gems  of 
the  pontifical  tiara,  and  though  he  effected  a  romantic  escape 
down  the  tower,  he  was  recaptured.  Not  being  sent  to  the 
scaffold,  he  departed  for  the  court  of  Francis  I.  at  Fontaine- 
bleau  and  to  Paris,  where  he  had  other  adventures  galore  that 
lose  nothing  in  his  telling.  He  returned  to  his  native  city  and 

231 


232  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

produced  numerous  works  of  art  which  won  general  admira- 
tion. The  regard  of  his  fellow-citizens  was  attested  when  he 
was  buried  with  great  pomp.  "  His  autobiographical  memoirs," 
declares  William  M.  Roscoe,  "are  a  production  of  the  utmost 
energy,  directness  and  racy  animation,  setting  forth  one  of  the 
most  singular  careers  in  all  the  annals  of  fine  art.  His 
amours  and  hatreds,  his  passions  and  delights,  his  love  of  the 
sumptuous  and  exquisite  in  art,  his  self-applause  and  self- 
assertion,  running  now  and  then  into  extravagances  which  it 
is  impossible  to  credit,  and  difficult  to  set  down  as  strictly 
conscious  falsehoods,  make  this  one  of  the  most  singular  and 
fascinating  books  in  existence.  Here  we  read  of  the  devout 
complacency  with  which  Cellini  could  regard  a  satisfactorily 
achieved  homicide ;  of  the  legion  of  devils  which  he  and  a 
conjuror  evoked  in  the  Colosseum,  after  one  of  his  numerous 
mistresses  had  been  spirited  away  from  him  by  her  mother ; 
of  the  marvelous  halo  of  light  which  he  found  surrounded  his 
head  at  dawn  and  twilight  after  his  Roman  imprisonment, 
and  his  supernatural  visions  and  angelic  protection  during 
that  adversity,  and  of  his  being  poisoned  on  two  occasions." 

THE  ONION  STEW. 

I  CONTINUED  to  work  for  the  Pope  [Clement  VII.],  execu- 
ting now  one  trifle  and  now  another,  till  he  commissioned 
me  to  design  a  chalice  of  exceeding  richness.  So  I  made 
both  drawing  and  model  for  the  piece.  The  latter  was  con- 
structed of  wood  and  wax.  Instead  of  the  usual  top,  I 
fashioned  three  figures  of  a  fair  size  in  the  round ;  they 
represented  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity.  Corresponding  to 
these,  at  the  base  of  the  cup,  were  three  circular  histories  in 
bas-relief.  One  was  the  Nativity  of  Christ,  the  second  the 
Resurrection,  and  the  third  Saint  Peter  crucified  head  down- 
wards ;  for  thus  I  had  received  commission.  While  I  had 
this  work  in  hand,  the  Pope  was  often  pleased  to  look  at  it ; 
wherefore,  observing  that  his  Holiness  had  never  thought 
again  of  giving  me  anything,  and  knowing  that  a  post  in  the 
Piotnbo  was  vacant,  I  asked  for  this  one  evening.  The  good 
Pope,  quite  oblivious  of  his  extravagances  at  the  termination 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  233 

of  the  last  piece,  said  to  me :  "  That  post  in  the  Piombo  is 
worth  more  than  eight  hundred  crowns  a  year,  so  that  if  I 
gave  it  yon,  you  would  spend  your  time  in  scratching  your 
paunch,  and  your  magnificent  handicraft  would  be  lost,  and  I 
should  bear  the  blame."  I  replied  at  once  thus:  "Cats  of 
a  good  breed  mouse  better  when  they  are  fat  than  starving ; 
and  likewise  honest  men  who  possess  some  talent,  exercise  it 
to  far  nobler  purport  when  they  have  the  wherewithal  to  live 
abundantly  ;  wherefore  princes  who  provide  such  folk  with 
competences,  let  your  Holiness  take  notice,  are  watering  the 
roots  of  genius ;  for  genius  and  talent,  at  their  birth,  corne 
into  this  world  lean  and  scabby ;  and  your  Holiness  should 
also  know  that  I  never  asked  for  the  place  with  the  hope  of 
getting  it.  Only  too  happy  am  I  to  have  that  miserable  post 
of  mace-bearer.  On  the  other  I  built  but  castles  in  the  air. 
Your  Holiness  will  do  well,  since  you  do  not  care  to  give  it 
me,  to  bestow  it  on  a  man  of  talent  who  deserves  it,  and  not 
upon  some  fat  ignoramus  who  will  spend  his  time  scratching 
his  paunch,  if  I  may  quote  your  Holiness' s  own  words.  Fol- 
low the  example  of  Pope  Julius  of  illustrious  memory,  who 
conferred  an  office  of  the  same  kind  upon  Bramante,  that 
most  admirable  architect." 

Immediately  on  finishing  this  speech,  I  made  my  bow, 
and  went  off  in  a  fury.  Then  Bastiano  Veneziano  the 
painter  approached,  and  said :  "  Most  blessed  Father,  may 
your  Holiness  be  willing  to  grant  it  to  one  who  works  assidu- 
ously in  the  exercise  of  some  talent ;  and  as  your  Holiness 
knows  that  I  am  diligent  in  my  art,  I  beg  that  I  may  be 
thought  worthy  of  it."  The  Pope  replied:  "That  devil 
Benvenuto  will  not  brook  rebuke.  I  was  inclined  to  give  it 
him,  but  it  is  not  right  to  be  so  haughty  with  a  Pope. 
Therefore  I  do  not  well  know  what  I  am  to  do."  The 
Bishop  of  Vasona  then  came  up,  and  put  in  a  word  for 
Bastiano,  saying :  "  Most  blessed  Father,  Benvenuto  is  but 
young ;  and  a  sword  becomes  him  better  than  a  friar's  frock. 
Let  your  Holiness  give  the  place  to  this  ingenious  person 
Bastiano.  Some  time  or  other  you  will  be  able  to  bestow  on 
Benvenuto  a  good  thing,  perhaps  more  suitable  to  him  than 
this  would  be."  Then  the  Pope,  turning  to  Messer  Barto- 


234  LITERATURE  OF  ALI<  NATIONS. 

lornmeo  Valori,  told  him  :  "When  next  you  meet  Benvenuto, 
let  him  know  from  me  that  it  was  he  who  got  that  office  in 
the  Piombo  for  Bastiano  the  painter,  and  add  that  he  may 
reckon  on  obtaining  the  next  considerable  place  that  falls ; 
meanwhile  let  him  look  to  his  behavior  and  finish  my  com- 
missions." 

The  following  evening,  two  hours  after  sundown,  I  met 
Messer  Bartolommeo  Valori  at  the  corner  of  the  Mint ;  he 
was  preceded  by  two  torches,  and  was  going  in  haste  to  the 
Pope,  who  had  sent  for  him.  On  my  taking  off  my  hat,  he 
stopped  and  called  me,  and  reported  in  the  most  friendly 
manner  all  the  messages  the  Pope  had  sent  me.  I  replied 
that  I  should  complete  my  work  with  greater  diligence  and 
application  than  any  I  had  yet  attempted,  but  without  the 
least  hope  of  having  any  reward  whatever  from  the  Pope. 
Messer  Bartolommeo  reproved  me,  saying  that  this  was  not 
the  way  in  which  one  ought  to  reply  to  the  advances  of  a 
Pope.  I  answered  that  I  should  be  mad  to  reply  otherwise — 
mad  if  I  based  my  hopes  on  such  promises,  being  certain  to 
get  nothing.  So  I  departed,  and  went  off  to  my  business. 

Messer  Bartolommeo  must  have  reported  my  audacious 
speeches  to  the  Pope,  and  more  perhaps  than  I  had  really 
said ;  for  his  Holiness  waited  above  two  months  before  he 
sent  for  me,  and  during  that  while  nothing  would  have  induced 
me  to  go  uncalled  for  to  the  palace.  Yet  he  was  dying  with 
impatience  to  see  the  chalice,  and  commissioned  Messer 
Ruberto  Pucci  to  give  heed  to  what  I  was  about.  That  right 
worthy  fellow  came  daily  to  visit  me,  and  always  gave  me 
some  kindly  word,  which  I  returned.  The  time  was  drawing 
nigh  now  for  the  Pope  to  travel  toward  Bologna  ;  so  at  last, 
perceiving  that  I  did  not  mean  to  come  to  him,  he  made 
Messer  Ruberto  bid  me  bring  my  work,  that  he  might  see 
how  I  was  getting  on.  Accordingly,  I  took-  it ;  and  having 
shown,  as  the  piece  itself  proved,  that  the  most  important 
part  was  finished,  I  begged  him  to  advance  me  five  hundred 
crowns,  partly  on  account,  and  partly  because  I  wanted  gold 
to  complete  the  chalice.  The  Pope  said  :  u  Go  on,  go  on  at 
work  till  it  is  finished."  I  answered,  as  I  took  my  leave,  that  I 
would  finish  it  if  he  paid  me  the  money.  And  so  I  went  away. 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  235 

When  the  Pope  took  his  journey  to  Bologna,  he  left  Car- 
dinal Salviati  as  Legate  of  Rome,  and  gave  him  commission 
to  push  forward  the  work  that  I  was  doing,  adding :  ' '  Ben- 
venuto  is  a  fellow  who  esteems  his  own  great  talents  but 
slightly,  and  us  less  ;  look  to  it  then  that  you  keep  him  always 
going,  so  that  I  may  find  the  chalice  finished  on  my  return.'3 

That  beast  of  a  Cardinal  sent  for  me  after  eight  days,  bid- 
ding me  bring  the  piece  up.  On  this  I  went  to  him  without 
the  piece.  No  sooner  had  I  shown  my  face,  than  he  called 
out:  "Where  is  that  onion-stew  [hodge-podge]  of  yours? 
Have  you  got  it  ready?"  I  answered:  "Omost  reverend 
Monsignor,  I  have  not  got  my  onion-stew  ready,  nor  shall  I 
make  it  ready,  unless  you  give  me  onions  to  concoct  it  with." 
At  these  words,  the  Cardinal,  who  looked  more  like  a  donkey 
than  a  man,  turned  uglier  by  half  than  he  was  naturally,  and 
wanting  at  once  to  cut  the  matter  short,  cried  out:  "  I'll  send 
you  to  a  galley,  and  then  perhaps  you'll  have  the  grace  to  go 
on  with  your  labor."  The  bestial  manners  of  the  man  made 
me  a  beast  too,  and  I  retorted :  "Monsignor,  send  me  to  the 
galleys  when  I've  done  deeds  worthy  of  them  ;  but  for  my 
present  neglect,  I  snap  my  fingers  at  your  galleys  ;  and  what 
is  more,  I  tell  you  that,  just  because  of  you,  I  will  not  set 
hand  further  to  my  piece.  Don't  send  for  me  again,  for  I 
won't  appear,  no,  not  if  you  summon  me  by  the  police." 

After  this,  the  good  Cardinal  tried,  several  times  to  let  me 
know  that  I  ought  to  go  on  working,  and  to  bring  him  what 
I  was  doing  to  look  at.  I  only  told  his  messengers  :  "  Say  to 
Monsignor  that  he  must  send  me  onions,  if  he  wants  me  to 
get  my  stew  ready."  Nor  did  I  ever  give  any  other  answer  ; 
so  that  he  threw  up  the  commission  in  despair. 

The  Pope  came  back  from  Bologna,  and  sent  at  once  for 
me,  because  the  Cardinal  had  written  the  worst  he  could  of 
my  affairs  in  his  despatches.  He  was  in  the  hottest  rage 
imaginable,  and  bade  me  come  upon  the  instant  with  my 
piece.  I  obeyed.  Now,  while  the  Pope  was  staying  at 
Bologna,  I  had  suffered  from  an  attack  of  inflammation  in 
the  eyes,  so  painful  that  I  scarce  could  go  on  living  for  the 
torment ;  and  this  was  the  chief  reason  why  I  had  not  carried 
out  my  work.  The  trouble  was  so  serious  that  I  expected 


236  LITERATURE  OF  AI,!,   NATIONS. 

for  certain  to  be  left  without  iny  eyesight ;  and  I  had  reck- 
oned up  the  sum  on  which  I  could  subsist,  if  I  were  blind  for 
life.  Upon  the  way  to  the  Pope,  I  turned  over  in  my  mind 
what  I  should  put  forward  to  excuse  myself  for  not  having 
been  able  to  advance  his  work.  I  thought  that,  while  he  was 
inspecting  the  chalice,  I  might  tell  him  of  my  personal 
embarrassments.  However,  I  was  unable  to  do  so ;  for  when 
I  arrived  in  the  presence,  he  broke  out  coarsely  at  me :  "  Come 
herewith  your  work ;  is  it  finished?"  I  displayed  it;  and 
his  temper  rising  he  exclaimed  :  "In  God's  truth  I  tell  thee, 
thou  that  makest  it  thy  business  to  hold  no  man  in  regard, 
that,  were  it  not  for  decency  and  order,  I  would  have  thee 
and  thy  work  chucked  out  of  windows."  Accordingly,  when 
I  perceived  that  the  Pope  had  become  no  better  than  a  vicious 
beast,  my  chief  anxiety  was  how  I  could  manage  to  withdraw 
from  his  presence.  So,  while  he  went  on  bullying,  I  tucked 
the  piece  beneath  my  cape,  and  muttered  under  my  breath : 
"  The  whole  world  could  not  compel  a  blind  man  to  execute 
such  things  as  these."  Raising  his  voice  still  higher,  the 
Pope  shouted:  "Come  here;  what  sayest  thou?"  I  stayed 
in  two  minds,  whether  or  not  to  dash  at  full  speed  down  the 
staircase ;  then  I  took  my  decision  and  threw  myself  upon 
my  knees,  shouting  as  loudly  as  I  could,  for  he  too  had  not 
ceased  from  shouting :  "  If  an  infirmity  has  blinded  me,  am 
I  bound  to  go  on  working  ? ' '  He  retorted :  ' '  You  saw  well 
enough  to  make  your  way  hither,  and  I  don't  believe  one 
word  of  what  you  say."  I  answered,  for  I  noticed  he  had 
dropped  his  voice  a  little :  "  Let  your  Holiness  inquire  of 
your  physician,  and  you  will  find  the  truth  out."  He  said  : 
"So  ho  !  softly ;  at  leisure  we  shall  hear  if  what  you  say  is 
so .' '  Then,  perceiving  that  he  was  willing  to  give  me  hear- 
ing, I  added:  "I  am  convinced  that  the  only  cause  of  this 
great  trouble  which  has  happened  to  me,  is  Cardinal  Sal- 
viati ;  for  he  sent  to  me  immediately  after  your  Holiness' s 
departure,  and  when  I  presented  myself,  he  called  my  work  a 
stew  of  onions,  and  told  me  he  would  send  me  to  complete  it 
in  a  galley  ;  and  such  was  the  effect  upon  me  of  his  knavish 
words,  that  in  my  passion  I  felt  my  face  inflame,  and  so  intol- 
erable a  heat  attacked  my  eyes  that  I  could  not  find  my  own 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  237 

way  home.  Two  days  afterwards,  cataracts  fell  on  both  my 
eyes  ;  I  quite  lost  my  sight,  and  since  your  Holiness's  depar- 
ture I  have  been  unable  to  work  at  all." 

Rising  from  my  knees,  I  left  the  presence  without  further 
license.  It  was  afterwards  reported  to  me  that  the  Pope  had 
said  :  "  One  can  give  commissions,  but  not  the  prudence  to  per- 
form them.  I  did  not  tell  the  Cardinal  to  go  so  brutally  about 
this  business.  If  it  is  true  that  he  is  suffering  from  his  eyes,  of 
which  I  shall  get  information  through  my  doctor,  one  ought  to 
make  allowance  for  him ."  A  great  gentleman,  intimate  with 
the  Pope,  and  a  man  of  very  distinguished  parts,  happened 
to  be  present.  He  asked  who  I  was,  using  terms  like  these  : 
"  Most  blessed  Father,  pardon  if  I  put  a  question.  I  have 
seen  you  yield  at  one  and  the  same  time  to  the  hottest  anger 
I  ever  observed,  and  then  to  the  warmest  compassion :  so  I 
beg  your  Holiness  to  tell  me  who  the  man  is ;  for  if  he  is  a 
person  worthy  to  be  helped,  I  can  teach  him  a  secret  which 
may  cure  him  of  that  infirmity."  The  Pope  replied:  "He 
is  the  greatest  artist  in  his  own  craft  that  was  ever  born  ;  one 
day,  when  we  are  together,  I  will  show  you  some  of  his 
marvellous  works,  and  the  man  himself  to  boot ;  and  I  shall 
be  pleased  if  we  can  see  our  way  toward  doing  something  to 
assist  him."  Three  days  after  this,  the  Pope  sent  for  me 
after  dinner-time,  and  I  found  that  great  noble  in  the  pre- 
sence. On  my  arrival,  the  Pope  had  my  cope-button  brought, 
and  I  in  the  meantime  drew  forth  my  chalice.  The  noble- 
man said,  on  looking  at  it,  that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  stu- 
pendous piece  of  work.  When  the  button  came,  he  was  still 
more  struck  with  wonder ;  and  looking  me  straight  in  the 
face,  he  added :  ' '  The  man  is  young,  I  trow,  to  be  so  .able  in 
his  art,  and  still  apt  enough  to  learn  much."  He  then  asked 
me  what  my  name  was.  I  answered :  ' '  My  name  is  Ben- 
venuto."  He  replied:  "And  Benvenuto  [welcome]  shall  I 
be  this  day  to  you.  Take  flower-de-luces,  stalk,  blossom,  root, 
together;  then  decoct  them  over  a  slack  fire,  and  with  the 
liquid  bathe  your  eyes  several  times  a  day,  you  will  most 
certainly  be  cured  of  that  weakness  ;  but  see  that  you  purge 
first,  and  then  go  forward  with  the  lotion. ' '  The  Pope  gave 
me  some  kind  words,  and  so  I  went  away  half  satisfied. 


238  LITERATURE   OP  ALL  NATIONS. 


CROSSING  THE  BRIDGE. 

WHEN  we  had  passed  Mount  Simplon  we  found  a  river 
near  a  place  called  Indevedro.  This  river  was  very  wide  and 
rather  deep,  and  crossed  by  a  little  narrow  bridge  without  a 
parapet.  There  was  a  hard  frost  that  morning,  and  when  I 
reached  the  bridge — for  I  was  in  front  of  the  rest,  and  saw 
that  it  was  very  dangerous — I  ordered  my  young  men  and  the 
servants  to  dismount  and  lead  their  horses  by  the  bridle. 
Thus  I  passed  the  said  bridge  in  safety,  and  went  on  talking 
with  one  of  those  two  Frenchmen,  who  was  a  gentleman. 
The  other  was  a  notary,  who  had  remained  somewhat  behind 
and  jeered  at  that  gentleman  and  at  me,  saying  that  for  fear 
of  nothing  at  all  we  had  preferred  the  discomfort  of  going  on 
foot ;  to  whom  I  turned,  and  seeing  him  on  the  middle  of  the 
bridge,  prayed  him  to  come  softly,  for  that  it  was  a  very  dan- 
gerous place.  This  man,  who  could  not  help  showing  his 
French  nature,  said  to  me  in  French  that  I  was  a  man  of 
little  courage,  and  that  there  was  no  danger  at  all.  While  he 
was  saying  these  words  he  pricked  his  horse  with  the  spur, 
through  which  means  it  suddenly  slipped  over  the  edge  of  the 
bridge,  and  fell  close  beside  a  large  stone,  turning  over  with 
its  legs  in  the  air ;  and  as  God  very  often  shows  compassion 
to  fools,  this  beast,  along  with  the  other  beast,  his  horse,  fell 
into  a  great  and  deep  hole,  wherein  both  he  and  his  horse 
went  under  water.  As  soon  as  I  saw  this  I  began  to  run,  and 
with  great  difficulty  leaped  upon  the  stone  aforesaid,  and, 
holding  on  by  it  and  hanging  over  the  brink,  I  seized  the 
edge  of  a  gown  which  that  man  was  wearing,  and  by  that 
gown  I  pulled  him  up,  while  he  was  still  under  water ;  and 
because  he  had  drunk  a  great  quantity  of  water,  and  within 
a  little  would  have  been  drowned,  I,  seeing  him  out  of  dan- 
ger, told  him  I  was  rejoiced  at  having  saved  his  life.  Whereat 
he  answered  me  that  I  had  done  nothing — that  the  most 
important  thing  were  his  parchments,  which  were  worth 
much  money.  It  seemed  that  he  spoke  thus  in  anger,  all 
soaked  through  as  he  was,  and  muttering  confusedly.  At  this 
I  turned  to  the  guides  we  had  with  us  and  promised  to  pay 


ITALIAN  LITERATURE.  239 

them  if  they  would  help  this  beast.  One  of  the  guides  valor- 
ously,  and  with  great  difficulty,  set  himself  to  do  what  he 
could,  and  fished  up  all  the  parchments,  so  that  he  lost 
nothing ;  the  other  would  not  put  himself  to  any  trouble  to 
help  him. 

GIACOMO  SANNAZARO. 

ARCADIA  is  synonymous  in  literature  with  the  ideal  land  of  poetic 
dreams.  This  use,  though  founded  on  ancient  examples,  was  estab- 
lished for  modern  times  by  the  pastoral  of  Sannazaro,  written  in 
mingled  prose  and  verse.  The  author  was  born  at  Naples  in  1458,  and 
was  early  proficient  in  Greek  and  Latin,  but  was  led  by  his  love  for 
Carmasina  Bonifacia  to  celebrate  her  charms  in  her  native  tongue.  He 
was  patronized  and  rewarded  by  King  Ferdinand  and  his  successor,  to 
whom  he  remained  faithful  even  after  the  loss  of  the  kingdom.  He 
died  in  1532. 

ELEGY  FROM  THE  ARCADIA.  • 

O  BRIEF  as  bright,  too  early  blest, 
Pure  spirit,  freed  from  mortal  care, 
Safe  in  the  far-off  mansions  of  the  sky, 
There,  with  that  angel  take  thy  rest, 
Thy  star  on  earth  ;  go,  take  thy  guerdon  there ! 
Together  quaff  the  immortal  joys  on  high, 
Scorning  our  mortal  destiny ; 
Display  thy  sainted  beauty  bright, 
'Mid  those  that  walk  the  starry  spheres, 
Through  seasons  of  unchanging  years ; 
By  living  fountains,  and  by  fields  of  light, 
L/eading  thy  blessed  flocks  above  ; 
And  teach  thy  shepherds  here  to  guard  their  care  with  love. 

Thine,  other  hills  and  other  groves, 

And  streams  and  rivers  never  dry, 

On  whose  fresh  banks  thou  pluck'st  the  amaranth  flowers ; 

While,  following  other  L/oves 

Through  sunny  glades,  the  Fauns  glide  by, 

Surprising  the  fond  Nymphs  in  happier  bowers. 

Pressing  the  fragrant  flowers, 

Androgeo  there  sings  in  the  summer  shade, 

By  Daphnis'  and  by  Meliboeus'  side, 

Filling  the  vaulted  heavens  wide 


240  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

With  the  sweet  music  made ; 
While  the  glad  choirs,  that  round  appear, 
Listen  to  his  dear  voice  we  may  no  longer  hear. 

As  to  the  elm  is  his  embracing  vine, 
As  their  bold  monarch  to  the  herded  kine, 
As  golden  ears  to  the  glad  sunny  plain, 
Such  wert  thou  to  our  shepherd  youths,  O  swain  ! 
Remorseless  Death  !  if  thus  thy  flames  consume 
The  best  and  loftiest  of  his  race, 
Who  may  escape  his  doom  ? 
What  shepherd  ever  more  shall  grace 
The  world  like  him,  and  with  his  magic  strain 
Call  forth  the  joyous  leaves  upon  the  woods, 
Or  bid  the  wreathing  boughs  embower  the  summer  floods  ? 

KING  ALPHONSO  OF  NAPLES. 

O  THOU,  so  long  the  Muse's  favorite  theme, 
Expected  tenant  of  the  realms  of  light, 
Now  sunk  for  ever  in  eternal  night, 

Or  recollected  only  to  thy  shame ! 

From  my  polluted  page  thy  hated  name 
I  blot,  already  on  my  loathing  sight 
Too  long  obtruded,  and  to  purer  white 

Convert  the  destined  record  of  thy  fame. 

On  thy  triumphant  deeds  far  other  strains 
I  hoped  to  raise ;  but  thou  defraud' st  the  song, 

Ill-omened  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  day's  broad  eye  ! 

Go,  then ;  and  whilst  the  Muse  thy  praise  disdains, 
Oblivion's  flood  shall  sweep  thy  name  along, 
And  spotless  and  unstained  the  paper  lie. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE. 

PERIOD  III.    1500-1600. 

'RENCH  Literature  in  the  sixteenth  century  shows 
the  profound  effects  of  three  great  causes — the 
lltejl  invention  of  printing,  the  revival  of  classical 
learning,  and  the  attempts  to  reform  the  Church. 
The  earlier  writers  of  this  time,  especially  the  scur- 
rilous Rabelais  and  the  skeptical  Montaigne,  have 
already  been  treated.*  The  poets  and  the  less  prominent 
prose  writers  remain  to  be  considered  here.  They  belonged 
chiefly  to  the  latter  part  of  that  tumultuous  century.  The 
attacks  on  the  corruptions  of  the  Church  led  to  a  reaction 
against  Christianity,  both  scholastic  and  practical.  Mar- 
guerite, Queen  of  Navarre,  though  a  patron  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, is  generally  regarded  as  the  author  of  the  tales  of  ' '  The 
Heptameron,"  a  palpable  imitation,  in  style  and  subject,  of 
Boccaccio's  "Decameron."  It  was  not  published,  however, 
till  after  her  death,  and  shows  more  literary  power  than  the 
other  works  she  had  produced.  The  stories  are  occupied  with 
the  higher  classes  of  society,  and  show  a  voluptuous  refine- 
ment of  manners,  but  a  low  state  of  morals. 

In  the  middle  of  the  century  there  was  a  remarkable 
movement  among  the  poets  of  France.  A  group  of  seven 
men  banded  themselves  together  for  the  reduction  of  the 
French  language,  and  especially  French  poetry,  to  the  rules  ol 
the  ancient  classics.  They  became  known  by  the  classical 
name  of  the  "Pleiade,"  which  had  been  applied  to  seven 
poets  of  the  court  of  the  Ptolemies.  Ronsard  and  Du  Bellay 


See  Volume  III.,  pp.  171-206. 


iv— 16 


241 


242  LITERATURE;  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

were  the  leaders  of  the  movement.  They  cast  aside  as 
unworthy  the  rude  and  vigorous  ballads  of  Villon  and  estab- 
lished the  forms  and  rules  of  verse  which  have  since  pre- 
vailed in  French  poetry.  Pierre  Ronsard  was  called  "the 
Prince  of  Poets ' '  by  his  contemporaries,  and  his  odes  were 
the  first  practical  illustration  of  the  aims  and  methods  of  the 
new  school.  But  his  epic,  the  "  Franciade,"  though  his  most 
ambitious  work,  was  an  utter  failure.  The  critical  poet 
Boileau  afterwards  condemned  Ronsard,  but  his  merits  have 
been  recalled  by  recent  writers.  Joachim  du  Bellay  was 
called  "the  Apollo  of  the  Pleiade,"  and  was  esteemed  equally 
as  a  poet  and  prose-writer.  Re"my  Belleau,  a  third  of  the 
stars,  made  many  poetical  translations,  and  was  noted  for 
his  descriptions  of  country  life.  The  other  members  of  the 
Pleiade  were  of  less  account.  It  would  be  possible  to  select 
seven  more  poets  of  that  age  showing  equal  talent.  Du  Bartas 
was  called  "the  Protestant  Ronsard,"  and  his  "First  Week," 
describing  the  Creation,  went  through  many  editions.  It 
established  the  long  Alexandrine  of  fourteen  syllables  as  the 
verse  for  serious  poetry  in  French.  It  was  translated  into 
English  and  had  its  effect  upon  Milton. 

Agrippa  d'  Aubigne*  is  noted  both  as  a  prose-writer  and 
poet,  but  chiefly  as  an  inflexible  Huguenot,  who  remained 
attached  to  Henry  IV. ,  after  the  king,  for  the  restoration  of 
peace,  professed  conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith. 
D'  Aubigne"  was  a  vigorous  satirist  as  well  as  historian,  and 
did  not  spare  even  his  royal  master.  His  masterpiece  is  a 
series  of  poems  called  ' '  Les  Tragiques, ' '  treating  of  the 
religious  wars  and  contemporary  abuses. 

The  critical  faculty  which  has  ever  been  strong  in  France 
was  manifested  in  a  new  movement  for  the  reform  of  the 
French  language.  The  grammarian  Malherbe  attempted  to 
reduce  it  to  strict  rule.  So  successful  were  his  instruction 
and  example  that  his  successor,  the  great  critic  Boileau, 
declared  that  classical  literature  began  with  Malherbe.  All 
writing  before  that  time  was  regarded  as  barbarous,  unworthy 
of  study  or  attention.  Only  in  recent  days  has  this  verdict 
been  set  aside,  and  the  merits  of  the  older  French  poetry 
been  recognized. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  243 


FRANCIS  I. 

THE  age  of  Francis  I.  was  full  of  poetry  as  well  as  of  momentous 
political  events.  The  king  himself  was  a  lyrical  poet,  and  the  vellum 
manuscript  of  his  songs  is  now  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris. 
Francis  I.  was  born  in  1494,  and  died  in  1547. 

THE  BRIGHTNESS  OF  HIS  L,ADY. 

As  at  my  window — all  alone — 

I  stood  about  the  break  of  day, 
Upon  my  left  Aurora  shone 

To  guide  Apollo  on  his  way. 
Upon  my  right  I  could  behold 
My  love,  who  combed  her  locks  of  gold ; 
I  saw  the  lustre  of  her  eyes, 

And,  as  a  glance  on  me  she  cast, 
Cried,  ' '  Gods,  retire  behind  your  skies, 

Your  brightness  is  by  hers  surpassed. 

As  gentle  Phoebe,  when  at  night 

She  shines  upon  the  earth  below, 
Pours  forth  such  overwhelming  light, 

All  meaner  orbs  must  faintly  glow, 
Thus  did  my  lady,  on  that  day, 
Eclipse  Apollo's  brighter  ray, 
Whereat  he  was  so  sore  distressed, 

His  face  with  clouds  he  overcast, 
And  I  exclaimed,  "That  course  is  best, — 

Your  brightness  is  by  hers  surpassed." 

Then  happiness  my  bosom  cheered ; 

But  soon  Apollo  shone  once  more, 
And  in  my  jealous  rage  I  feared 

He  loved  the  fair  one  I  adore. 
And  was  I  wrong  ? — Nay,  blame  who  can, 
When  jealous  of  each  mortal  man, 
The  love  of  gods  can  I  despise,  ? 

I  hope  to  conquer  fear  at  last, 
By  crying,  ' '  Keep  behind  your  skies, 

Ye  gods,  your  brightness  is  surpassed !  " 


244  LITERATURE   OF  ALI,   NATIONS. 


MARGUERITE   OF  NAVARRE. 

THE  reputed  author  of  the 
Heptameron  is  known  in  history 
by  th  ree  names :  Marguerite  d '  An- 
gouleme  from  her  family  ;  Mar- 
guerite de  Valois  from  her  house, 
and  Marguerite  of  Navarre  from 
the  kingdom,  claimed  but  not 
enjoyed  by  her  husband.  She 
was  the  sister  of  Francis  I. ,  and 
was  two  years  his  senior,  being 
born  in  1492.  The  Heptameron 
had  circulated  in  manuscript,  but  was  not  published  until  after 
her  death  in  1549  ;  but  the  gossipy  Brantome  distinctly  avers  : 
"  The  Queen  of  Navarre  composed  most  of  these  novels  in 
her  litter  as  she  traveled ;  for  her  hours  of  retirement  were 
employed  in  affairs  of  importance.  I  have  heard  this  account 
from  my  grandmother  who  always  went  with  her  in  her 
litter,  as  her  lady  of  honor,  and  held  her  standish  for  her ; 
and  she  wrote  them  down  as  quickly  and  readily,  or  rather 
more  so,  than  if  they  had  been  dictated  to  her. ' '  The  second 
edition  was  dedicated  by  Claude  Gruget,  the  editor,  to  Mar- 
guerite's only  daughter,  Jeanne  d'Albret,  mother  of  Henry 
IV.  Some  scholars  to-day  hold  the  belief,  nevertheless,  that 
Des  Pdriers,  Marot  and  the  wits  of  Marguerite's  Court  wrote 
these  licentious  tales  for  her,  she  supplying  only  the  more 
pious  prologues  and  epilogues,  and  maybe  a  few  of  the  less 
questionable  stories. 

Marguerite's  other  literary  relics  consist  of  a  collection  of 
poems  styled  ' '  Les  Marguerites  de  la  Marguerite  des  Prin- 
cesses" (The  Pearls  of  the  Pearl  of  Princesses),  and  her  Letters. 
In  Paris  she  was  the  chief  patroness  of  literature.  After  the 
death  of  her  first  husband,  Charles,  Due  d'Alengon,  she  wedded 
Henri  d'  Albret,  King  of  Navarre ;  but  Francis  I.  never  suc- 
ceeded in  reconquering  that  kingdom  for  them  as  he  had 
promised.  Marguerite  was  possessed  by  a  mystical  pietism, 
and  was  a  protector  for  the  Reformers  ;  still  she  saw  no  harm 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  245 

in  her  "Second  Decameron,"  as  she  intended  to  entitle  her 
great  work  in  imitation  of  Boccaccio.  She  had  collected  only 
seventy-two  tales  for  it,  however,  and  Gruget  rechristened 
it  the  Heptameron.  Marguerite,  called  by  Francis  "Ma 
Mignonne,"  was  more  than  tolerant  of  the  illicit  amours 
in  which  her  royal  brother  openly  revelled.  She  even  pro- 
nounced, in  her  "  Debat  d' Amour,"  a  pompous  eulogy  on 
one  royal  mistress,  Madame  d'  Btampes.  Her  husband  treated 
her  most  roughly.  The  Sorbonne  passed  a  secret  censure 
on  her. 

Of  the  seventy-two  tales  of  the  Heptameron  Dunlop 
declares  that  "few  of  them  are  original;  for,  except  about 
half-a-dozen  which  are  historically  true,  and  are  mentioned 
as  having  fallen  under  the  observation  of  the  Queen  of 
Navarre,  they  may  all  be  traced  to  the  Fabliaux,  the  Italian 
novels,  and  the  Hundred  Ancient  Tales. ' '  But  in  her  pro- 
logue the  queen  declares  that  all  the  tales  are  founded  on 
fact.  Certainly  some  of  them  are  only  half-veiled  scandals 
of  the  court  of  Francis  I.  Brantome  analyzes  a  number  of 
the  stories  and  gives  many  purportedly  real  names  of  the 
masked  characters.  He  assures  us  that  the  queen  portrayed 
herself  as  a  Princess  of  Flanders,  relating  the  audacious 
attempt  made  upon  her  chastity  by  Admiral  de  Bonnivet. 
Madame  Oisille,  for  instance,  appears  to  be  Marguerite's 
mother,  Louise  of  Savoy.  Oisille  relates  many  of  the  tales 
of  the  Franciscans  or  Cordeliers.  In  this  typical  work  of  the 
age  stories  and  comments  of  a  very  ticklish  nature  are  char- 
acteristically mingled  with  the  most  pious  reflections.  The 
framework  of  the  series  of  tales  is  inferior  to  that  of  Boccacio's 
fugitives  from  the  Florentine  plague.  In  the  Heptameron 
ten  French  ladies  and  gentlemen,  intercepted  by  a  perilous 
inundation  on  their  return  from  the  baths  of  Cauterets,  take 
shelter  in  a  monastery  of  the  Pyrenees.  La  Fontaine  has 
drawn  appreciably  upon  this  store  of  tales.  "The  Hepta- 
meron" must  be  pronounced  to  be,  however,  a  weak  sort  of 
Decameron.  The  exact  original  version  was  first  published 
from  the  manuscript  as  late  as  1853. 


246  LITERATURE   OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


THE  REJECTED  BRIDEGROOM. 

IN  the  town  of  Valencia  there  lived  a  gentleman  who 
during  five  or  six  years  had  loved  a  lady  so  perfectly  that 
neither  of  them  was  hurt  in  honor  nor  in  conscience  thereby ; 
for  his  intention  was  to  make  her  his  wife, — and  reasonably 
enough,  as  he  was  handsome,  rich  and  of  a  noble  house,  and 
had  not  placed  himself  at  her  service  without  first  making 
known  his  desire  to  arrange  a  marriage  with  the  good- will  of 
her  friends  ;  and  these,  being  assembled  for  that  purpose, 
found  the  match  in  every  way  fitting,  if  the  girl  herself  should 
be  of  their  mind.  But  she,  either  hoping  to  find  a  better,  or 
wishing  to  hide  the  love  she  had  for  the  youth,  discovered  an 
obstacle  ;  so  the  company  was  broken  up,  not  without  regret- 
ting that  she  could  not  give  the  affair  a  better  ending,  seeing 
that  on  both  sides  the  match  was  good.  But,  above  all  assem- 
bled, the  poor  gentleman  was  wroth,  who  could  have  borne  his 
misfortune  patiently  had  he  believed  the  fault  to  lie  with  her 
friends  and  not  with  her :  but  knowing  the  truth  (to  believe 
which  were  more  bitter  than  death),  he  returned  home  with- 
out a  word  to  his  lady-love  or  to  any  other  there  ;  and  having 
put  some  order  in  his  affairs,  he  went  away  into  a  desolate 
place,  where  he  sought  with  pains  and  trouble  to  forget  this 
affection,  and  to  turn  it  wholly  to  the  love  of  our  Saviour, 
Jesus  Christ,  to  which  affection  he  was,  without  comparison, 
the  more  obliged.  And  during  this  time  he  never  heard  either 
from  his  lady  or  from  her  friends  ;  therefore  he  resolved,  having 
failed  in  the  happiest  life  he  could  have  hoped,  to  take  and 
choose  the  most  austere  and  disagreeable ;  and  full  of  this  sad 
thought,  which  one  might  call  despair,  he  went  to  become  a 
monk  at  a  Franciscan  monastery,  close  to  which  lived  several 
of  his  friends. 

These  friends,  having  heard  of  his  despair,  made  every 
effort  to  hinder  his  resolve  ;  but  so  firmly  was  it  rooted  in  his 
heart,  they  could  not  turn  him  from  it.  Nevertheless,  know- 
ing his  ailment,  they  thought  to  find  the  medicine,  and  went 
to  her  who  was  the  cause  of  his  sudden  devotion.  They  found 
her  much  bewildered  and  astonished  at  their  news,  for  she 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  247 

had  meant  her  refusal,  which  was  but  for  a  time,  to  test  the 
true  love  of  her  lover,  and  not  to  lose  it  forever ;  and  seeing 
the  evident  danger  of  this,  she  sent  Mm  an  epistle,  which, 
rudely  rendered,  runs  as  follows  : 

Because,  unless  it  well  be  proven,  love 

As  strong  and  loyal  no  one  can  approve, 

I  wished  to  wait  till  proven  to  my  mind 

Was  that  I  longed  so  ardently  to  find. 

A  husband  full  of  perfect  love  it  was 

That  I  desired,  a  love  that  would  not  pass ; 

And  so  I  begged  my  parents  not  to  haste, 

Still  to  delay,  let  one  year,  two  years,  waste 

Before  I  played  the  game  that  must  endure 

Till  death,  which  many  a  one  repents,  for  sure. 

I  never  said  I  would  not  have  your  love ; 
So  great  a  loss  I  was  not  dreaming  of, 
For  certes,  none  but  you  I  loved  at  all — 
None  other  would  I  lord  and  husband  call. 
Ah  me  !  my  love,  what  bitterness  to  say 
That  thou  without  a  word  art  gone  away  ! 
A  narrow  cell,  a  convent  life  austere, — 
These  are  your  choice ;  oh,  misery  to  hear  ! 
Now  must  I  change  my  office  pleading  so, 
As  once  in  guileless  words  you  used  to  do — 
Requiring  that  which  was  of  me  required, 
Acquiring  him  by  whom  I  was  acquired. 
Nay,  now,  my  love,  life  of  the  life  of  me, 
I  do  not  care  to  live  berett  of  thee. 

Ah  !  turn  again  thy  distant  eyes  to  mine ; 
Turn  on  thy  steps,  if  so  thy  will  incline. 
Leave  thou  the  cowl  of  gray,  the  life  austere ; 
All  of  my  love  and  all  my  heart  are  here, 
By  thee  so  many  times  so  much  desired. 
Time  hath  not  changed  my  heart,  it  hath  not  tired. 
For  thee,  for  thee  alone,  I  keep  my  heart, 
And  that  must  break  if  thou  must  keep  apart. 
Come,  then,  again  return  ;  believe  thy  dear ; 
Consider  in  thy  mind  how  many  a  year 
We  might  be  happy,  joined  in  holy  marriage  ; 
And  me  believe,  and  not  thy  cruel  courage. 
Be  sure  I  never  meant  to  say  or  do 


248  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

A  word  to  wound,  a  deed  to  make  thee  rue. 
I  meant  to  make  you  happy,  dear,  enough, 
When  I  had  full  assurance  of  your  love. 
And  now,  indeed,  my  heart  is  fixed  and  sure  ; 
Thy  firmness,  faith  and  patience  to  endure, 
And  over  all,  thy  love  I  know  and  see, 
And  they  have  gained  me  wholly,  dear,  to  thee, 
Come,  now,  and  take  the  thing  that  is  thine  own  ; 
For  thine  am  I,  and  be  thou  mine  alone. 


This  letter,  carried  by  one  of  his  friends,  along  with  all 
possible  remonstrances,  was  received  by  the  gentleman  Fran- 
ciscan with  a  very  mournful  countenance,  and  with  so  many 
sighs  and  tears  it  seemed  as  though  he  meant  to  burn  or  drown 
the  poor  little  letter.  But  he  made  no  answer  to  it,  telling  the 
messenger  that  the  overcoming  of  his  extreme  passion  had 
cost  him  so  dear  that  he  now  neither  cared  to  live  nor  feared 
to  die  ;  wherefore  he  begged  her  who  had  been  the  occasion  of 
his  grief,  since  she  had  not  chosen  to  gratify  the  passion  of 
his  great  desires,  not  to  torment  him  now  that  he  was  quit  of 
them,  but  to  content  herself  with  the  evil  done,  for  which  he 
could  find  no  other  remedy  than  the  choice  of  this  rude  life, 
whose  continual  penance  put  his  sorrow  out  of  mind,  and  by 
fasts  and  discipline  enfeebled  his  body  so  that  the  remembrance 
of  death  had  become  his  sovereign  consolation ;  and,  above 
all,  he  prayed  her  never  to  let  him  hear  any  news  of  her,  for 
even  the  memory  of  her  name  had  become  an  insupportable 
purgatory  to  him.  The  gentleman  returned  with  this  mourn- 
ful answer,  delivering  it  to  her,  who  could  not  hear  it  without 
incredible  regret. 

But  lyove,  which  lets  not  the  spirit  fail  until  it  is  in  ex- 
tremity, put  it  into  her  fancy  that  if  she  could  only  see  him,  the 
sight  of  her  and  the  voice  of  her  would  have  more  force  than 
writing.  Wherefore,  accompanied  by  her  father  and  the  nearest 
of  her  kin,  she  set  out  for  the  monastery  where  he  dwelt,  having 
left  nothing  that  could  heighten  the  aspect  of  her  beauty ; 
and  sure  she  felt  that  if  he  could  but  see  her  once  and  hear 
her  speak,  it  would  be  impossible  that  the  flame  so  long  con- 
tinued in  their  hearts  should  not  light  up  again,  .and  stronger 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  249 

than  before.  Therefore,  entering  the  monastery  about  the 
end  of  vespers,  she  had  him  called  to  a  chapel  in  the  clois. 
ters.  He,  knowing  not  who  was  asking  for  him,  went  to 
fight  the  hardest  battle  he  had  ever  fought.  And  when  she 
saw  him,  all  pale  and  undone,  so  that  she  scarcely  knew  him 
again,  yet  filled  none  the  less  with  a  grace  no  less  amiable 
than  before,  then  love  constrained  her  to  stretch  out  her  arms, 
thinking  to  embrace  him  ;  but  the  pity  of  seeing  him.  in  such 
a  state  sent  such  a  sudden  weakness  to  her  heart  that  she  fell 
down  fainting.  Then  the  poor  monk,  who  was  not  destitute 
of  brotherly  charity,  lifted  her  up  and  placed  her  on  a  seat 
which  was  in  the  chapel.  And  he  himself,  who  no  less  needed 
succor,  made  as  if  he  felt  no  passion,  strengthening  his  heart 
in  the  love  of  his  God  against  the  opportunity  that  tempted 
him,  so  that  he  seemed,  from  his  countenance,  to  be  ignorant 
of  that  which  he  saw. 

The  lady,  coming  to  life  again,  turned  on  him  her  eyes, 
that  were  so  beautiful  and  piteous  they  would  have  softened 
stone,  and  began  to  tell  him  all  the  thoughts  she  had  to  draw 
him  from  that  place ;  to  which  he  answered  in  the  most  vir- 
tuous manner  that  he  could.  But  in  the  end  the  poor  monk, 
feeling  his  heart  melt  before  the  abundant  tears  of  his  darling 
(as  one  who  sees  Love,  the  cruel  archer,  whose  wound  he  has 
long  suffered  from,  make  ready  his  golden  arrow  to  strike  him 
in  a  fresh  and  mortal  part),  even  so  he  fled  away  from  Love 
and  his  beloved,  as  though  the  only  force  left  to  him  lay  in 
flight.  And  being  shut  in  his  chamber,  not  wishing  to  let 
her  go  without  some  resolution  taken,  he  wrote  to  her  a  few 
words  in  Spanish,  and  these  words  he  sent  to  her  by  a  little 
novice,  who  found  her  still  in  the  chapel  in  such  despair  that 
had  it  been  lawful  for  her  to  take  the  veil  in  that  monastery, 
she  would  have  stayed.  But  on  seeing  the  writing,  which 
said,  "  Return  whence  thou  earnest,  my  heart,  for  among  the 
sad  lives  is  mine."  Knowing  by  these  words  that  all  her 
hopes  had  failed,  she  determined  to  follow  the  counsel  of  him 
and  of  her  friends,  and  returned  home,  to  lead  there  as  melan- 
choly a  life  as  her  lover  spent  austerely  in  his  monastery. 

Thus  you  see,  ladies,  the  vengeance  this  gentleman  took 
on  his  hard-hearted  love,  who,  thinking  to  make  an  experi- 


250  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

ment  of  his  truth,  drove  hirn  to  despair  in  such  a  manner  that 
when  she  would  she  could  not  have  him  again. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Nomerfide,  "  that  he  did  not  doff  his 
cowl  and  marry  her ;  for  then,  methinks,  there  would  have 
been  a  perfect  marriage." 

"  Of  a  truth,' '  said  Simontault,  "I  think  he  was  very  wise  ; 
for  one  who  has  well  considered  the  married  state  will  not 
esteem  it  less  vexatious  than  an  austere  devotion  ;  and  he,  so 
greatly  weakened  by  fasts  and  abstinences,  feared  to  take 
upon  him  such  a  life-long  burden.' ' 

1  'It  seems  to  me,"  said  Hircan,  "she  did  very  wrong  tc 
so  weak  a  man  in  trying  to  tempt  him  with  marriage ;  that  is 
too  much  for  the  strongest  man  in  the  world.  But  had  she 
only  spoken  of  love  and  friendship,  with  no  other  bondage 
than  that  of  will,  there  is  no  cord  that  would  not  have  been 
broken  nor  knot  untied ;  yet,  seeing  that  for  escape  from 
purgatory  she  offered  him  hell,  I  think  he  had  good  reason 
to  refuse." 

" In  faith,"  said  Emarsuitte,  "there  are  many  who  intend- 
ing to  do  better  than  others,  do  worse ;  or,  at  least,  the  very 
reverse  of  what  they  would." 

THE  PLEIADE. 

SEVEN  Greek  poets  of  Alexandria  had  been  named  the 
Pleiades,  after  the  constellation  of  the  sailing  stars.  From 
them  the  first  French  school  of  classical  poets  took  its  name. 
It  was  called  into  being  by  Joachim  du  Bellay  (1524-1560), 
and  shone  in  its  most  refulgent  glory  in  Pierre  de  Ronsard 
(i  524-1 585).  Both  of  these  poets  were  born  in  the  same  year, 
and  both,  as  well  as  a  brother-Pleiad,  Re" my  Belleau,  were 
extremely  deaf.  The  minor  stars  of  this  classic  galaxy  were 
Jean  Daurat  (1507-1588),  Jean  Antoine  de  Baif,  Pontus  de 
Tyard  and  Etienne  Jodelle.  The  honor  of  being  the  founder 
of  this  Parnassian  society  is  assigned  to  Daurat,  who  might 
be  Rabelais' s  Limousin,  since  he  was  born  in  Limoges  and 
was  brought  before  Francis  I.  He  became  director  of  the 
College  de  Coqueret,  where  he  had  Ronsard,  Baif,  Belleau 
and  Tyard  for  pupils.  Ronsard,  later,  recruited  Du  Bellay, 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  251 

and  Jodelle,  the  father  of  the  classical  French  tragedy,  was 
the  last  to  join.  Daurat  was  styled  "the  royal  poet"  by 
King  Charles  IX.,  but  his  verses  scarcely  deserve  mention. 

The  first  real  poet  of  the  Ple*iade,  the  sounder  of  its  key- 
note, Joachim  du  Bellay,  proclaimed  the  new  literary  pro- 
gramme in  his  "Defence  et  Illustration  de  la  langue  fran- 
gaise,"  which  appeared  in  1549,  only  five  years  after  the 
death  of  Clement  Marot.  It  was  not  only  one  of  the  earliest 
pieces  of  literary  criticism  in  French,  but,  as  Van  Laun 
asserts,  "the  first  articulate  profession  of  the  classical  theory 
of  French  poetry,  and  marked  the  inauguration  of  a  literary 
epoch  in  verse  which  was  (despite  Malherbe's  criticism)  only 
to  be  overthrown  completely  by  the  poets  of  the  Cdnacle  in 
the  early  years  of  this  nineteenth  century."  The  Ple*iade  set 
an  artificial  neo-classical  style  so  decided  that,  says  the 
same  critic,  ' '  for  upwards  of  two  hundred  years  France 
had  no  poet  of  superlative  genius  or  originality.  .  .  .  The 
man  who  consents  to  lace  and  pad  his  body,  to  wear  stays  and 
a  wig,  may  look  excellently  well  in  a  minuet  or  court  dance, 
but  the  free  play  of  the  limbs,  the  natural  agility  and  vigor 
which  he  might  have  enjoyed,  must  be  sacrificed  on  the  shrine 
of  his  adopted  fashion. ' '  Joachim  du  Bellay  was  a  nephew 
of  the  Cardinal  du  Bellay,  Rabelais' s  powerful  friend  and  pro- 
tector. He  was  born,  quite  prophetically,  at  Lyre.  Confined 
to  his  bed  by  a  long  illness,  he  turned  for  solace  to  the  Latin 
and  Greek  poets,  and  soon  burned  to  imitate  them  in  French. 
In  his  "  Defence  et  Illustration  "  he  sounds  the  trumpet  call : 

"Thither,  then,  O  Frenchmen,  advance  courageously 
towards  that  illustrious  Roman  city,  and  with  the  booty  plun- 
dered from  her,  as  you  have  more  than  once  done,  adorn  your 
temples  and  your  altars.  Fear  no  more  those  cackling  geese, 
that  fierce  Manlius  and  that  traitor  Camillus.  .  .  .  Enter  that 
false-tongued  Greece,  and  plant  there  once  again  the  famous 
nation  of  Gallo-Greeks.  Pillage  without  scruple  the  sacred 
treasures  of  that  Delphic  temple,  as  you  did  of  old,  and  fear 
no  more  that  dumb  Apollo,  his  false  oracles  and  his  rebound- 
ing arrows.  .  .  .  Leave  all  these  old  French  poems  to  the 
Floral  Games  of  Toulouse,  and  to  the  puy  (dramatic  festivals) 
of  Rouen;  such  as  rondeaus,  ballades,  virelais,  royal  songs. 


252  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

lays,  and  other  such  spicy  things,  which  corrupt  the  taste 
of  our  language,  and  are  of  no  other  value  than  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  our  ignorance." 

Du  Bellay  himself  cultivated  the  sonnet,  which  he  was 
the  first  French  poet  to  use  with  fluency.  His  love-sonnets, 
"I/Olive,"  celebrate  in  Petrarchian  fashion  a  mistress  Viole, 
and  his  ' '  Les  Regrets ' '  tell  of  his  fiery  passion  in  Rome  for 
a  married  beauty,  who  passes  under  the  poetic  title  of  Colum- 
belle.  For  these  amatory  poems  he  was  crowned  as  the 
French  Ovid.  His  other  poems  have  a  certain  force  and  sub- 
limity that  appealed  to  Edmund  Spenser,  who  translated 
sixty  of  the  Roman  sonnets  into  English.  Du  Bellay 's 
' '  Winnowers'  Hymn ' '  has  been  declared  to  be  one  of  the  love- 
liest lyrics  of  the  age.  The  admiring  Spenser  annexed  the 
following  envoi  to  his  translation  of  the  "Ruins  of  Rome : " 

"Bellay,  first  garland  of  free  Poesie 

That  France  brought  forth,  thou  fruitfull  of  brave  wits, 
Well  worthie  thou  of  immortalitie, 

That  long  hast  travel'd  by  thy  learned  wits 
Old  Rome  out  of  her  ashes  to  revive, 

And  give  a  second  life  to  dead  decayes ! 
Needes  must  he  all  eternitie  survive, 

That  can  to  others  give  eternall  days : 
Thy  dayes  therefore  are  endless,  and  thy  praise 

Excelling  all  that  ever  went  before. ' ' 

The  greatest  of  the  poets  of  the  Ple"iade  was,  however, 
Ronsard,  a  native  of  the  Vendome,  who  was  Du  Bellay 's  par- 
ticular intimate  to  the  end,  despite  a  quarrel  over  the  priority 
in  a  new  form  of  ode.  While  Du  Bellay  died  Archbishop  of 
Bordeaux,  and  was  buried  in  Notre  Dame,  Ronsard's  father 
was"maitre  d'hotel"  to  Francis  the  First,  and  the  young 
Pierre  began  as  a  page  to  the  king's  son,  Charles,  Duke  of 
Orleans.  Traveling  with  the  Duke  to  England,  Ronsard  may 
have  met  there  those  pioneers  of  English  song — Wyatt,  Sur- 
rey and  Gabriel  Harvey.  Deserting  Mars  for  the  Muses,  he 
placed  himself  under  Daurat,  with  Baif  as  a  fellow-student. 
For  seven  years  he  devoted  himself  to  Latin  and  Greek. 
He  was  the  latest  of  the  famous  seven  to  sing,  not  pub- 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  253 

lisliing  his  four  books  of  odes  until  1550.  He  asked  to  be 
crowned  the  first  French  lyricist,  and  such  is  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  monument  erected  to  his  memory  in  1872. 
Montaigne  declared  that  in  Ronsard  French  poetry  had 
attained  its  standard  and  could  not  advance  beyond  him.  He 
was  hailed  as  the  Pindar,  the  Petrarch  of  France.  Marguerite 
of  Savoy  accepted  the  dedication  of  both  his  l '  Hymns ' '  and 
his  ' '  Amours."  Queen  Elizabeth  sent  him  a  diamond.  Even 
Tasso  forwarded  him  the  first  outline  of  "Jerusalem  Deli- 
vered." Nor  was  Ronsard  in  any  danger  from  the  Catholic 
court.  His  "  Discourse  about  the  Miseries  of  these  Times," 
directed  against  the  Calvinists,  won  him  the  public  thanks  of 
Catharine  de  Medici,  and  she  also  suggested  the  publication 
of  his  heroic  poem,  the  "Franciade"  (1572).  This  epic  ap- 
peared only  twenty  days  after  the  St.  Bartholomew  massacre. 
Ronsard  purposed  to  prolong  it  in  twenty- four  books,  tracing 
the  glories  of  the  French  kings  from  Francion,  a  child  of 
Hector  and  a  Trojan  by  birth.  When  but  four  books  had 
been  finished  Charles  IX.  died,  and  the  disheartened  court- 
poet  laid  aside  his  task.  Ronsard,  praised  by  Andrew  Lang 
to-day  as  "Prince  of  Poets,"  boasted  not  only  that  he  had 
labored  indefatigably  for  his  mother  tongue,  but  that  he  had 
put  her  poetry  into  such  shape  that  "  the  French  could  rival 
the  Romans  and  Greeks."  He  ended  his  days  as  a  priest  in 
Tours. 

Of  De  Baif,  who  founded  the  Acade"mieeRoyale  de  Mu- 
sique  and  was  a  wealthy  courtier,  it  may  be  added  that  he 
was  a  delicate  rhymer  of  "amours,  sports  and  pastimes." 
Belleau  wrote  pastorals,  and  has  been  styled  the  French 
Herrick. 

THE  RUINS  OF  ROME. 

(By  Joachim  du  Bellay.    Translated  by  Edmund  Spenser.) 

IT  was  the  time,  when  rest,  soft  sliding  down 
From  heaven's  height  into  men's  heavy  eyes, 

In  the  forgetfulness  of  sleep  doth  drown 
The  careful  thoughts  of  mortal  miseries ; 

Then  did  a  ghost  before  mine  eyes  appear, 

On  that  great  river's  bank  that  runs  by  Rome ; 


254  UTERATURE   OP  AU,   NATIONS. 

Which,  calling  me  by  name,  bade  me  to  rear 

My  looks  to  heaven,  whence  all  good  gifts  do  come. 

And,  crying  loud,   "I/>!  now  behold,"  quoth  he, 
"  What  under  this  great  temple  placed  is : 

I,o,  all  is  nought  but  flying  vanity  !  " 
So  I,  that  know  this  world's  inconstancies, 

Since  only  God  surmounts  all  time's  decay, 

In  God  alone  my  confidence  do  stay. 

On  high  hill's  top  I  saw  a  stately  frame, 

An  hundred  cubits  high  by  just  assize, 
With  hundred  pillars  fronting  fair  the  same, 

All  wrought  with  diamond  after  Doric  wise : 
Nor  brick  nor  marble  was  the  wall  in  view, 

But  shining  crystal,  which  from  top  to  base 
Out  of  her  womb  a  thousand  rayons  threw, 

One  hundred  steps  of  Afric  gold's  enchase : 
Gold  was  the  parget;  and  the  ceiling  bright  [wall-covering 

Did  shine  all  scaly  with  great  plates  of  gold ; 
The  floor  of  jasp  and  emerald  was  dight. 

O  world's  vainness !     While  thus  I  did  behold, 
An  earthquake  shook  the  hill  from  lowest  seat, 
And  overthrew  this  frame  with  ruin  great. 

Then  did  a  sharp  spire  of  diamond  bright, 

Ten  feet  each  way  in  square,  appear  to  me, 
Justly  proportion'd  up  unto  his  height, 

So  far  as  archer  might  his  level  see : 
The  top  thereof  a  pot  did  seem  to  bear, 

Made  of  the  metal  which  we  most  do  honor ; 
And  in  this  golden  vessel  couched  were 

The  ashes  of  a  mighty  emperor : 
Upon  four  corners  of  the  base  were  pight,  [fixed 

To  bear  the  frame,  four  great  lions  of  gold ; 
A  worthy  tomb  for  such  a  worthy  wight. 

Alas !  this  world  doth  nought  but  grievance  hold  ! 
I  saw  a  tempest  from  the  heaven  descend, 
Which  this  brave  monument  with  flash  did  rend. 

I  saw  a  wolf  under  a  rocky  cave 

Nursing  two  whelps ;  I  saw  her  little  ones 

In  wanton  dalliance  the  teat  to  crave, 
While  she  her  neck  wreath' d  from  them  for  the  nones : 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  255 

I  saw  her  range  abroad  to  seek  her  food, 

And,  roaming  through  the  field  with  greedy  rage, 
T'  imbrue  her  teeth  and  claws  with  lukewarm  blood 

Of  the  small  herds,  her  thirst  for  to  assuage : 
I  saw  a  thousand  huntsmen,  which  descended 

Down  from  the  mountains  bord'ring  Lombardy, 
That  with  an  hundred  spears  her  flank  wide  rended : 

I  saw  her  on  the  plain  outstretched  lie, 
Throwing  out  a  thousand  throbs  in  her  own  soil ; 
Soon  on  a  tree  uphanged  I  saw  her  spoil. 

THE  WINNOWERS'  HYMN. 

IN  this  hymn,  by  Du  Bellay,  the  winds  are  invoked  by  the  win- 
nowers of  the  wheat. 

To  you,  troop  so  fleet, 
That  with  winged  wandering  feet, 

Through  the  wide  world  pass, 
And  with  soft  murmuring 
Toss  the  green  shades  of  spring 

In  woods  and  grass, 
Lily  and  violet 
I  give,  and  blossoms  wet, 

Roses  and  dew  ; 
This  branch  of  blushing  roses, 
Whose  fresh  bud  uncloses, 

Wind-flowers  too. 
Ah,  winnow  with  sweet  breath, 
Winnow  the  holt  and  heath, 

Round  this  retreat ; 
Where  all  the  golden  morn 
We  fan  the  gold  o'  the  corn, 

In  the  sun's  heat. 

THE  LOVERS'  PRAYER  TO  VENUS. 

(By  Joachim  Du  Bellay.) 

WE  that  with  like  hearts  love,  we  lovers  twain, 
New  wedded  in  the  village  by  thy  fane, 
Lady  of  all  chaste  love,  to  thee  it  is 
We  bring  these  amaranths,  these  white  lilies, 
A  sign  and  sacrifice ;  may  Love,  we  pray, 


256  LITERATURE  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

I<ike  amaranthine  flowers,  feel  no  decay; 
Like  these  cool  lilies,  may  our  loves  remain 
Perfect  and  pure  and  know  not  any  stain  ; 
And  be  our  hearts,  from  this  thy  holy  hour, 
Bound  each  to  each,  like  flower  to  wedded  flower. 

APRIL. 

(By  Remy  Belleau.) 

APRIL,  pride  of  woodland  ways, 

Of  glad  days, 
April,  bringing  hope  of  prime, 

To  the  young  flowers  that  beneath 

Their  bud  sheath 
Are  guarded  in  their  tender  time ; 

April,  pride  of  fields  that  be 

Green  and  free, 
That  in  fashion  glad  and  gay, 
Stud  with  flowers,  red  and  blue, 

Every  hue, 
Their  jeweled  spring  array; 

April,  pride  of  murmuring 

Winds  of  spring, 
That  beneath  the  winnowed  air, 
Trap  with  subtle  nets  and  sweet 

Flora's  feet, 
Flora's  feet,  the  fleet  and  fair ; 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 

From  her  breast 
Nature  scatters  everywhere 
Handfuls  of  all  sweet  perfumes, 

Buds  and  blooms, 
Making  faint  the  earth  and  air. 

April,  joy  of  the  green  hours, 

Clothes  with  flowers 
Over  all  her  locks  of  gold 
My  sweet  Lady;  and  her  breast 

With  the  blest 
Buds  of  summer  manifold. 


FRENCH   UTERATURB.  257 

April,  with  thy  gracious  wiles, 

lyike  the  smiles, 

Smiles  of  Venus ;  and  thy  breath 
L,ike  her  breath,  the  Gods'  delight, 

(From  their  height 
They  take  the  happy  air  beneath); 

It  is  thou  that,  of  thy  grace, 

From  their  place 
In  the  far-off  isles  dost  bring 
Swallows  over  earth  and  sea, 

Glad  to  be 
Messengers  of  thee  and  Spring. 

Daffodil  and  eglantine, 

And  woodbine, 
I/ily,  violet,  and  rose, 
Plentiful  in  April  fair, 

To  the  air 
Their  pretty  petals  do  unclose. 

Nightingales  ye  now  may  hear, 

Piercing  clear, 

Singing  in  the  deepest  shade  ; 
Many  and  many  a  babbled  note 

Chime  and  float, 
Woodland  music  through  the  glade. 

April,  all  to  welcome  thee, 

Spring  sets  free 

Ancient  flames,  and  with  low  breath 
Wakes  the  ashes  gray  and  old 

That  the  cold 
Chilled  within  our  hearts  to  death. 

Thou  beholdest,  in  the  warm 

Hours,  the  swarm 
Of  the  thievish  bees,  that  flies 
Evermore  from  bloom  to  bloom 

For  perfume, 
Hid  away  in  tiny  thighs. 

Her  cool  shadows  May  can  boast, 

Fruits  almost 
iv — 17 


258  LITERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

Ripe,  and  gifts  of  fertile  dew, 
Manna-sweet  and  honey-sweet, 

That  complete 
Her  flower  garland  fresh  and  new. 

Nay,  but  I  will  give  my  praise, 

To  these  days, 

Named  with  the  glad  name  of  Her* 
That  from  out  the  foam  o'  the  sea 

Came  to  be 
Sudden  light  on  earth  and  air. 

THE  WREATH  OF  ROSES. 

THIS  poem  and  the  four  following  pieces  are  by  Pierre  Ronsard, 
and  are,  with  one  exception,  translated  by  Andrew  Lang. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  wreath  of  blossoms  blown 
And  woven  flowers  at  sunset  gathered, 
Another  dawn  had  seen  them  ruined,  and  shed 

Loose  leaves  upon  the  grass  at  random  strown. 

By  this,  their  sure  example,  be  it  known, 
That  all  your  beauties,  now  in  perfect  flower, 
Shall  fade  as  these,  and  wither  in  an  hour, 

Flowerlike,  and  brief  of  days,  as  the  flower  sown. 

Ah,  time  is  flying,  lady — time  is  flying ; 
Nay,  'tis  not  time  that  flies,  but  we  that  go, 

Who  in  short  space  shall  be  in  churchyard  lying, 
And  of  our  loving  parley  none  shall  know, 

Nor  any  man  consider  what  we  were ; 

Be  therefore  kind,  my  love,  while  thou  art  fair. 

THE   ROSE. 

SEE,  Mignonne,  hath  not  the  Rose, 
That  this  morning  did  unclose 

Her  purple  mantle  to  the  light, 
Lost,  before  the  day  be  dead, 
The  glory  of  her  raiment  red, 

Her  color,  bright  as  yours  is  bright? 

*  Aphrodite,  from  which  name  the  poet  incorrectly  supposes  April 
is  derived. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  259 

Ah,  Mignonne,  in  how  few  hours, 
The  petals  of  her  purple  flowers 

All  have  faded,  fallen,  died ; 
Sad  Nature,  mother  ruinous, 
That  seest  thy  fair  child  perish  thus 

'Twixt  inatin  song  and  eventide. 

Hear  me,  my  darling,  speaking  sooth, 
Gather  the  fleet  flower  of  your  youth, 

Take  your  pleasure  at  the  best ; 
Be  merry  ere  your  beauty  flit, 
For  length  of  days  will  tarnish  it, 

L,ike  roses  that  were  loveliest.  - 

To  His  YOUNG  MISTRESS. 

FAIR  flower  of  fifteen  springs,  that  still 
Art  scarcely  blossomed  from  the  bud, 
Yet  hast  such  store  of  evil  will, 
A  heart  so  full  of  hardihood, 
Seeking  to  hide  in  friendly  wise 
The  mischief  of  your  mocking  eyes. 

If  you  have  pity,  child,  give  o'er ; 

Give  back  the  heart  you  stole  from  me, 
Pirate,  setting  so  little  store 

On  this  your  captive  from  L,ove's  sea, 
Holding  his  misery  for  gain, 
And  making  pleasure  of  his  pain. 

Another,  not  so  fair  of  face, 

But  far  more  pitiful  than  you, 
Would  take  my  heart,  if  of  his  grace, 
My  heart  would  give  her  of  Love's  due ; 
And  she  shall  have  it,  since  I  find 
That  you  are  cruel  and  unkind. 

Nay,  I  would  rather  that  it  died, 

Within  your  white  hands  prisoning, 
Would  rather  that  it  still  abide 
In  your  ungentle  comforting, 
Than  change  its  faith,  and  seek  to  her 
That  is  more  kind,  but  not  so  fair. 


LITERATURE  OF  AL,!,  NATIONS. 


OF  His  LADY'S  OLD  AGE. 

WHEN  you  are  very  old,  and  by  the  caudle's  flame, 
Sitting  beside  the  fire,  you  talk  and  spin  and  sing 
My  songs  o'  nights,  then  you  will  say,  half  wondering : 
"  Ronsard  in  bygone  days  hath  sung  my  beauty's  fame." 

When  those  around  thee  hear  this  word,  no  serving  dame 
Of  thine,  already  at  her  task  half  slumbering, 
But  at  the  echo  of  my  name  awakening, 

With  everlasting  praise  shall  rise  and  bless  thy  name. 

But  I,  a  formless  ghost  within  the  earth  full  deep, 
Beneath  the  myrtle  shadows  I  shall  lie  asleep ; 

While  thou  before  the  fire  art  crouching,  old  and  gray, 
Weeping  for  my  lost  love  and  for  thy  proud  disdain. 
Wait  not  the  morrow,  but  live  now,  if  thou  wilt  deign 

To  hear  me ;  pluck  the  roses  of  thy  life  to-day. 

His  LADY'S  DEATH. 

TWAIN  that  were  foes,  while  Mary  lived,  are  fled ; 
One  laurel-crowned  abides  in  heaven,  and  one 

Beneath  the  earth  has  fared,  a  fallen  sun, 
A  light  of  love  among  the  loveless  dead. 
The  first  is  Chastity,  that  vanquished 

The  archer  Love,  that  held  joint  empery 

With  the  sweet  beauty  that  made  war  on  me, 
When  laughter  of  lips  with  laughing  eyes  was  wed. 
Their  strife  the  Fates  have  closed,  with  stern  control, 
The  earth  holds  her  fair  body,  and  her  soul 

An  angel  with  glad  angels  triumpheth ; 
Love  has  no  more  that  he  can  do ;  desire 
Is  buried,  and  my  heart  a  faded  fire, 

And  for  Death's  sake,  I  am  in  love  with  Death. 

BRANTOME. 

PIERRE  DE  BOURDEILLES,  Seigneur  de  Bran  tome  (1540- 
1614),  has  been  aptly  styled  by  Van  Laun  as  "the  Grammont 
and  the  Pepys  of  his  age,  who,  if  he  could  have  kept  his 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  26l 

eyes  upon  its  best  rather  than  upon  its  worst  features,  might 
possibly  have  been  its  Plutarch.' '  As  it  is,  his  works  furnish 
an  admirable  picture  of  the  general  court  life  of  his  time, 
with  its  undisguised  and  unblushing  profligacy.  Brantome 
was  the  third  son  of  the  Viscount  de  Bourdeilles,  and  he  was 
brought  up  in  the  court  of  Marguerite  of  Navarre.  That 
princess's  nephew,  King  Henri  II.,  bestowed  on  Pierre  de 
Bourdeilles  the  abbey  of  Brantome,  but  to  the  end  of  his  life 
the  recipient  remained  more  a  refined  courtier  than  a  proper 
abbe*.  Early  in  life  he  had  espoused  the  profession  of  arms, 
only  to  lay  them  down  after  the  death  of  Charles  IX.  On  the 
field  he  had  proved  himself  a  brave  soldier,  a  fact  which 
later,  no  doubt,  caused  him  to  be  chosen  as  one  of  the  com- 
panions of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  in  her  voyage  from  France 
to  Scotland.  To  the  last  he  idolized  Mary  as  a  martyr, 
the  victim  of  "lies  and  abuse."  But,  alas,  he  also  made 
idols  of  Catharine  de  Medici  and  the  dissolute  Marguerite 
of  Valois,  wife  of  Henry  IV.  The  fact  is  that  he  was  essen- 
tially a  courtier  of  his  age,  who  could  not  truly  perceive 
the  stains  on  the  dames  galantes  and  hommes  illuslres 
of  his  worship.  Nevertheless  this  very  unconscious  view  of 
them  adds  a  piquancy  to  his  gallery  of  portraits  ;  and  although 
his  scandals  and  chronicles  are  not  of  the  most  trustworthy, 
yet  as  a  whole  they  furnish  an  almost  unexampled  picture  of 
the  times.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  read  Rabelais  in  the  light  of 
Brantome.  His  style  is  naive  and  conversational,  and  he  does 
not  neglect  the  foreign  captains  and  duels  he  has  seen  in 
dwelling  on  the  picturesque  and  vivacious  annals  of  the  court 

of  the  Valois. 

» 

MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS  LEAVING  FRANCE. 

WHEN  the  beginning  of  autumn  had  come,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  the  queen  who  had  been  delaying  should  leave 
France.  She  set  out  by  land  to  Calais,  accompanied  by  my 
lords  her  uncles  and  my  lord  of  Nemours,  and  by  most  of  the 
grand  and  honorable  persons  of  the  court,  together  with  the 
ladies,  as  Madame  de  Guise  and  others,  all  regretting  and 
weeping  with  abundant  tears  the  loss  of  such  a  queen. 


262  LITERATURE   OF   ALL  NATIONS. 

She  found  in  port  two  galleys,  one  belonging  to  my  Lord 
de  Mevillon,  the  other  to  Captain  d'Albize,  and  two  ships  of 
burden.  This  was  the  entire  fleet,  and  after  six  days'  rest  at 
Calais,  having  said  her  sad  and  mournful  adieus  to  all  the 
grand  company  which  was  there,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  she  embarked,  having  with  her  her  uncles,  my  lords 
d'Aumale,  Grand  Prior,  and  d'Elben,  and  my  Lord  Damville, 
now  my  Lord  Constable,  and  most  of  the  nobility  of  us  that 
were  with  her  in  the  galley  of  my  Lord  de  Mevillon,  as  being 
the  better  and  finer. 

Just  when  she  was  wishing  to  begin  leaving  the  harbor, 
and  the  oars  were  commencing  to  turn,  she  saw  a  ship  put 
out  to  sea,  and  full  in  view  sink  and  perish  before  her,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  sailors  drowned,  through  not  having 
well  learned  the  current  and  the  ground.  Seeing  this,  she 
cried  out  at  once,  "Ah,  God  !  what  an  ornen  for  a  voyage  is 
this  !  "  The  galley  having  left  the  harbor,  and  a  slight  wind 
having  arisen,  they  set  sail,  and  the  oars  had  rest.  She, 
without  thinking  of  other  action,  leaned  her  arms  on  the  stern 
of  the  galley  beside  the  helm,  and  melted  in  a  flood  of  tears } 
steadfastly  casting  her  lovely  eyes  on  the  harbor  and  the  town 
which  she  had  left,  ever  and  anon  uttering  these  sad  words, 
"Adieu,  France  ! — adieu,  France  !  " — repeating  them  at  every 
turn.  This  mournful  fit  lasted  nearly  five  hours,  until  night 
began  to  come  on,  and  they  asked  her  if  she  would  not  move 
from  the  spot  and  take  some  food.  Then  redoubling  her 
weeping  more  than  ever,  she  said,  "  It  is  at  this  hour  I  lose 
you  forever  from  sight,  dear  France,  since  the  dark  night 
is  jealous  of  my  beholding  you  as  long  as  I  could,  and 
draws  a  black  veil  before  my  eyes  to  deprive  me  of  such  a 
joy.  Adieu,  then,  my  dear  France ;  when  I  lose  you  from 
sight,  I  shall  see  you  nevermore  ! ' '  Thus  she  withdrew, 
saying  that  she  had  done  just  the  opposite  to  Dido,  who  did 
nothing  but  gaze  upon  the  sea,  when  ^neas  departed  from 
her,  while  she  looked  steadily  at  the  land. 

The  queen  resolved  to  lie  down  without  eating,  and  would 
not  descend  to  the  cabin  in  the  stern ;  but  they  prepared 
the  deck  of  the  galley  above  the  stern  for  her,  and  there 
arranged  her  couch.  There  resting  a  little,  yet  not  forgetting 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  263 

her  sighs  and  tears,  she  directed  the  helmsman,  as  soon  as  it 
should  be  day,  if  he  still  saw  or  descried  the  land  of  France, 
that  he  should  awake  her  and  not  fear  to  call  her.  In  this 
fortune  favored  her,  for  the  wind  having  ceased,  and  recourse 
being  had  to  the  oars,  they  made  little  way  that  night ;  so 
that  when  daylight  appeared  the  coast  of  France  was  still  in 
view,  and  the  helmsman  did  not  neglect  the  command  she  had 
given.  She  rose  on  her  couch,  and  again  began  to  watch  the 
shore  of  France  as  long  as  she  could.  But  as  the  galley 
withdrew  she  lost  this  solace,  and  saw  no  more  her  beautiful 
land.  Then  again  she  repeated  those  words,  ' '  Adieu,  France  ! 
It  is  finished.  Adieu,  France !  I  feel  that  I  shall  see  you 
nevermore  ! ' '  She  even  expressed  a  wish  at  that  time  that 
an  English  fleet  should  appear  and  so  threaten  us,  that  she 
might  be  compelled  to  fall  behind  and  escape  to  the  harbor 
whence  she  had  set  out.  But  in  this  matter  God  did  not 
favor  her  desires. 

Without  any  hindrance  we  arrived  at  Little  Luc  (the  port  of 
Leith.)  As  for  the  voyage,  I  shall  mention  this  little  inci- 
dent, that  the  first  evening  after  we  embarked  the  Lord  of 
Chastelard  (who  was  afterwards  executed  in  Scotland  for  his 
overboldness,  and  not  for  a  crime ;  he  was  a  well-bred 
cavalier,  a  good  soldier,  and  a  good  scholar)  when  he  saw 
them  lighting  the  lantern  of  the  galley,  used  this  witty 
remark  :  that  there  was  no  need  of  that  lantern  nor  of  a  torch 
to  lighten  us  on  the  sea,  for  the  beautiful  eyes  of  the  queen 
were  bright  and  brilliant  enough  to  light  up  all  the  sea  with 
their  beautiful  fires,  without  even  setting  fire  to  them  for  any 
need. 

It  should  be  noted,  that  a  day  before  the  Sunday  morning 
on  which  we  arrived  in  Scotland,  there  sprang  up  so  great  a 
fog  that  we  could  not  see  from  the  stern  to  the  prow,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  the  pilot  and  his  comrades  were  astonished, 
so  that  it  was  necessary  to  cast  anchor  in  the  open  sea,  and 
to  take  soundings  to  know  where  we  were.  This  fog  lasted  a 
day  and  a  night,  until  the  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock, 
when  we  found  ourselves  surrounded  by  a  large  number  of 
rocks ;  so  that  if  we  had  gone  ahead  or  aside  we  should  have 
struck  them,  and  should  have  all  perished.  But  the  Queen 


264 


LITERATURE  OF   ALL  NATIONS. 


said,  that  for  her  part  she  would  not  have  been  troubled  nor 
wished  for  anything  so  much  as  death,  but  that  she  should 
not  wish  or  desire  that  for  the  welfare  of  the  kingdom  of 
Scotland.  On  the  morning  after  the  lifting  of  this  fog,  when 
we  recognized  and  viewed  the  coast  of  Scotland,  there  were 
some  augured  from  that  fog  that  we  were  going  to  land  in  a 
kingdom  full  of  confusion  and  quarrels  and  misfortunes. 


MARY,   QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

HISTORIANS  still  dis- 
pute the  character  and 
actions  of  the  beautiful 
and  unfortunate  Mary 
Stuart,  Queen  of  Scots. 
She  lived  in  a  time  of  the 
bitterest  religious  contro- 
versy, and  was  firmly  at- 
tached to  the  Roman 
Church.  Though  heiress 
of  the  Scottish  crown,  she 
had  been  married  to  the 
dauphin  of  France,  and 
would  have  preferred  to 
remain  in  that  sunny  land 
had  fate  permitted.  On 
the  death  of  Francis  II. 
she  was  obliged  to  return 

to  Scotland  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  conflict  with  a  rude 
and  turbulent  people.  In  the  bleak  and  dreary  Northern  land 
there  was  little  to  attract  the  youthful  lover  of  gayeties,  such  as 
she  had  shared  in  the  French  court.  No  wonder  that  she  gave 
her  affection  to  the  foreigners  who  ministered  to  her  pleasures, 
and  roused  the  hatred  of  the  fickle  Darnley,  whom  she  had 
been  persuaded  to  marry.  Whatever  may  have  been  her 
ambition  with  regard  to  the  English  crown,  she  bitterly 
expiated  in  prison  and  on  the  scaffold  any  offence  she  had 
committed.  The  few  literary  relics  she  has  left  are  in  the 
French  language. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE.  265 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  HUSBAND,  FRANCIS  II. 

IN  accents  sad  and  low, 

And  tones  of  soft  lament, 
I  breathe  the  bitterness  of  woe 

O'er  this  sad  chastisement: 
With  many  a  mournful  sigh 
The  days  of  youth  steal  by. 

Was  e'er  such  stern  decree 

Of  unrelenting  fate? 
Did  merciless  adversity 

E'er  blight  so  fair  a  state 
As  mine,  whose  heart  and  eye 
In  bier  and  coffin  lie, — 

Who,  in  the  gentle  spring 

And  blossom  of  my  years, 
Must  bear  misfortune's  piercing  sting, 

Sadness,  and  grief,  and  tears, — 
Thoughts,  that  alone  inspire 
Regret  and  soft  desire  ? 

What  once  was  blithe  and  gay,  • 

Changed  into  grief  I  see ; 
The  glad  and  glorious  light  of  day 

Is  darkness  unto  me : 
The  world — the  world  has  naught 
That  claims  a  passing  thought. 

Deep  in  my  heart  and  eye 

A  form  and  image  shine, 
Which  shadow  forth  wan  misery 

On  this  pale  cheek  of  mine, 
Tinged  with  the  violet's  blue, 
Which  is  love's  favorite  hue. 

Where'er  my  footsteps  stray, 

In  mead  or  wooded  vale, 
Whether  beneath  the  dawn  of  day, 

Or  evening  twilight  pale, — 
Still,  still  my  thoughts  ascend 
To  my  departed  friend. 


266  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

If  towards  his  home  above 

I  raise  my  mournful  sight, 
I  meet  his  gentle  look  of  love 

In  every  cloud  of  white ; 
But  straight  the  watery  cloud 
Changes  to  tomb  and  shroud. 

When  midnight  hovers  near, 

And  slumber  seals  mine  eyes, 
His  voice  still  whispers  in  mine  ear, 

His  form  beside  me  lies ; 
In  labor,  in  repose, 
My  heart  his  presence  knows. 

FAREWELL  TO  FRANCE. 

FAREWELL,  beloved  France  to  thee, 
Best  native  land ! 
The  cherished  strand 
That  nursed  my  tender  infancy  ! 
Farewell,  my  childhood's  happy  day! 
The  bark  that  bears  me  thus  away 

Bears  but  the  poorer  moiety  hence ; 
The  nobler  half  remains  with  thee, — 

I  leave  it  to  thy  confidence, 
But  to  remind  thee  still  of  me ! 

FRANCOIS   DE  MALHERBE. 

THE  great  French  critic  who  trampled  the  laurels  of 
Ronsard  and  the  Ple"iade  in  the  dust  was  Francis  de  Mal- 
herbe  (1555-1618).  He  clasped  the  fetters  of  a  new  formalism 
on  French  verse — shackles  not  to  be  broken  until  the  rise  of 
Victor  Hugo  and  Romanticism.  The  Graeco-Gallic  innova- 
tions of  the  Pl£iade  were  certainly  far  too  luxuriant,  but 
the  modern  verdict  has  sided  with  Ronsard  against  Malherbe. 
Malherbe's  own  poems  are  all  contained  in  a  thin  little 
volume  of  small  intrinsic  merit  outside  of  a  few  severely 
polished  gems,  such  as  trie  poem  "Consolation  a  Du  Perrier," 
addressed  to  an  old  Provencal  friend  on  the  loss  of  his 
daughter.  But  while  Malherbe  was  by  no  means  so  splendid 
a  poet  as  Ronsard,  he  was  vastly  superior  to  the  minor  Ple*i- 


FRENCH  LITERATURE.  267 

adists  and  their  grotesque  imitators ;  and  if  his  cold  formal- 
ism sinned  against  the  true  poetic  spirit,  it  may  well  be 
doubted  whether  the  great  romantic  school  of  the  early  nine- 
teenth century  which  rose  so  triumphantly  against  the  slavery 
of  his  rules,  could  really  have  been,  had  Malherbe  not  first 
have  swept  away  the  exaggerated  conceits  of  his  predecessors 
and  early  contemporaries.  He  was  thirty  years  old  when 
Ronsard  died,  and  the  latest  survivor  of  the  Ple*iade — Des- 
portes — lived  to  grace  Malherbe's  pillory.  The  critic,  indeed, 
did  not  hesitate  to  insult  this  worthy  elder  poet  at  his  own 
table.  ' '  Your  soup  is  better  than  your  '  Psalms, '  "  he  once 
said  to  his  host.  The  anecdote  sheds  a  vivid  light  on  the  inso- 
lent character  of  Malherbe.  He  was  a  servile  flatterer  of  the 
great,  an  obstinate  suitor  for  favors,  and  yet  a  bearish  fellow 
to  his  equals.  His  criticism  is  infected  with  jealousy,  and  is 
frequently  downright  unfair.  The  eldest  son  of  a  king's  coun- 
sellor in  the  magistracy  of  Caen,  he  swore  to  "  degasconize  " 
French  poetry,  that  is,  to  free  it  from  the  infection  of  the 
Troubadours.  His  ungratefulness  is  visible  in  the  fact  that 
after  dedicating  a  collection  of  servile  verses  to  King  Henry 
III.,  he  libelled  that  monarch.  His  success  dates  from  his 
submissive  courtiership  to  Marie  de  Medici.  His  friend 
Recan  wrote  a  Boswell-like  life  of  him,  while  Regnier, 
Desportes'  half-vagabond  nephew,  of  all  men,  defended  the 
Ple"iade  that  had  condemned  Villon,  and  embalmed  the  great 
satirist  in  a  supreme  satire.  Regnier  declared  that  to  judge 
and  write  poetry  after  Malherbe's  fashion,  "is  to  make  prose 
of  poetry  and  poetry  of  prose."  But  Boileau,  in  his  sum- 
mary of  the  origin  of  French  poetry,  praised  Malherbe's  life 
labors  as  a  critic  in  his  sententious  and  famous  line,  "At  last 
arrived  Malherbe." 

PHYLLIS  AND  GLYCERA. 

PHYLLIS  sees  me  pine  away, 

Sees  my  ravished  senses  stray, 
Down  my  cheeks  the  tear-drops  creeping. 

When  she  seeks  the  cause  of  pain, 

Of  her  charms  she  is  so  vain, 
That  she  thinks  for  her  I'm  weeping. 


268  LITERATURE  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

Sorry  I  should  be,  forsooth, 

Did  I  vex  her  with  the  truth. 
Yet  it  surely  is  permitted 

Just  to  point  out  her  mistakes, 

When  herself  the  cause  she  makes 
Of  a  crime  she  ne'er  committed. 

'T  was  a  wondrous  school,  no  doubt, 

Where  she  found  her  beauty  out, 
Which,  she  thinks,  can  triumph  o'er  me; 

So  that  deeming  her  divine, 

I  can  languish,  weep  and  pine, 
With  so  plain  a  truth  before  me. 

Mine  would  be  an  easy  case 

If  a  happy  resting  place 
In  her  den  she  could  insure  me ; 

Then  for  solace  to  my  woe 

Far  I  should  not  have  to  go, — 
E'en  the  vilest  herbs  might  cure  me. 

'Tis  from  Glycera  proceeds 

Grief  with  which  my  bosom  bleeds 
Beyond  solace  or  assistance. 

Glycera  commands  my  fate, 

As  she  pleases  to  dictate, 
Death  is  near  or  at  a  distance. 

Sure  of  ice  that  heart  is  made 

Which  no  pity  can  invade, 
Even  for  a  single  minute ; 

But  whatever  faults  I  see, 

In  my  soul  still  bideth  she, — 
Room  for  thee  is  not  within  it. 

CONSOLATION  FOR  A  DAUGHTER'S  DEATH. 

THE  following  is  translated  from  his  "  Consolation  a  Du  Perrier," 
written  to  a  friend  who  had  lost  his  only  daughter. 

I  KNOW  with  what  delights  her  infancy  was  filled, 

And  I  have  not  undertaken, 
As  hurtful  friend,  to  console  thy  grief, 

By  making  light  of  it. 


FRENCH   LITERATURE. 


269 


Yet  she  was  of  this  world,  where  the  finest  things 

Have  the  sorest  fate ; 
And  a  rose  herself,  she  has  lived  as  the  roses 

The  brief  space  of  a  morning. 

For  me,  already  twice  have  I  been  maimed 

By  the  like  fire  from  heaven, 
And  twice  has  reason  fortified  my  soul 

That  I  lament  no  more. 

Yet  it  is  pain  to  me,  because  the  tomb 

Owns  what  I  held  so  dear ; 
But  that  which  knows  no  remedy  should  be 

Devoid  of  idle  plaint. 

Death  has  his  cruel  terrors  unsurpass'd ; 

In  vain  we  sue  for  grace, 
The  harsh  oppressor  shuts  his  ruthless  ears, 

And  lets  his  victims  sue. 

The  wretch  half-sheltered  by  his  roof  of  straw 

Is  subject  to  his  will ; 
No  faithful  guard  who  stands  at  Louvre's  gate 

Can  shield  the  heads  of  kings. 


SCANDINAVIAN 
LITERATURE. 

THE  HEIMSKRINGLA.* 


HE  "Heimskringla,"  or  "Round  World,"  is  a 
work  of  great  historic  interest,  being  the  sagas 
of  the  kings  of  Norway.  Snorri's  preface  to 
this  bead-roll  of  honor  begins  with  this  short 
summary  of  what  was  known  of  ' '  parts  of  the  mrth  :' ' 
"  The  round  world,  wherein  mankind  dwell,  is  much 
sheared  apart  by  gulfs  ;  great  seas  go  from  the  outer  sea  into 
the  earth,  and  men  know  surely  that  a  sea  goeth  from  Niorvi's 
Sound  right  up  to  the  land  of  Jerusalem  ;  from  that  sea  goeth  a 
long  gulf  to  the  north-east,  which  is  called  the  Black  Sea, 
and  sundereth  the  two  World-Ridings ;  to  the  east  is  Asia, 
but  to  the  west  is  called  Europe  by  some,  but  by  some  Enea ; 
but  north  of  the  Black  Sea  lies  Sweden  the  Great  on  the  Cold. 
.  .  .  Mighty  lordships  there  are  in  Sweden,  and  peoples  of 
manifold  kind,  and  many  tongues  withal ;  there  are  giants 
and  dwarfs,  yea,  and  Blue-men,  and  folk  of  many  kinds  and 
marvellous ;  and  there  are  savage  beasts,  and  dragons  won- 
drous great." 

Snorri  knew  nothing  of  the  bold  Eric  and  keif  Ericson 
who  had  long  before  discovered  the  still  more  wonderful  con- 
tinent, afterwards  named  America,  but  he  tells  us  the  circum- 
stantial tale  of  Odin  and  Freyia  and  all  the  royal  deities 
whose  romantic  adventures  form  the  burden  of  these  sagas  of 
the  Ynglings,  down  to  the  year  1 177.  We  learn  of  the  immi- 
gration of  the  .5£sir  into  Sweden  and  the  doings  of  their  suc- 
cessors, the  kings  of  Upsala,  and  of  the  Norwegian  kings, 

*  For  General  Introduction  to  Scandinavian  Literature,  see  Volume 
II.,  pp.  340-345- 
270 


SCANDINAVIAN  UTERATURB.  271 

particularly  of  Olaf  Tryggvesson  and  Saint  Olaf.  He  acknow- 
ledges his  indebtedness  to  Ari  the  Learned,  the  mass-priest, 
for  the  "many  ancient  tales"  that  make  up  these  histories. 
Several  of  these  stories  from  the  Saga  of  King  Olaf  have 
been  versified  in  Longfellow's  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn." 

GYDA,  ERIC'S  DAUGHTER. 

KING  HARALD  sent  his  men  after  a  certain  maiden  called 
Gydaj  the  daughter  of  King  Brie  of  Horfaland,  and  she  was  at 
fostering  at  Valldres  with  a  rich  bonder.  Now  the  king  would 
fain  have  her  to  his  bed-mate,  because  she  was  a  maiden  ex- 
ceeding fair  and  withal  somewhat  high-minded.  So  when 
the  messengers  came  there  they  put  forth  their  errand  to  the 
maiden,  and  she  answered  in  this  wise :  "I  will  not  waste  my 
maidenhood  for  the  taking  of  a  husband  who  has  no  more 
realm  to  rule  over  than  a  few  folk.  Marvellous  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  be  no  king  minded  to  make  Norway  his  own, 
and  be  sole  lord  thereof  in  such  wise  as  Gorm  of  Denmark  or 
Eric  of  Upsala  have  done."  Great  words,  indeed,  seemed 
this  answer  to  the  messengers,  and  they  asked  her  concerning 
her  words,  what  this  answer  should  come  to ;  and  they  say 
that  Harald  is  a  king  so  mighty  that  the  offer  is  right  meet 
for  her.  But  yet,  though  she  answered  to  their  errand  other- 
wise than  they  would,  they  see  no  way  as  at  this  time  to  have 
her  away  but  if  she  were  willing  thereto,  so  they  arrayed  them 
for  their  departing,  and  when  they  were  ready,  men  led  them 
out.  Then  spake  Gyda  to  the  messengers:  "Give  this  my 
word  to  King  Harald,  that  only  so  will  I  say  yea  to  being  his 
sole  and  lawful  wife,  if  he  will  first  do  so  much  for  my  sake 
as  to  lay  under  him  all  Norway,  and  rule  that  realm  as  freely 
as  King  Eric  rules  the  Swede-realm,  or  King  Gorm  Denmark  ; 
for  only  so  may  he  be  called  aright  a  king  of  the  people." 

Thereupon  the  messengers  fare  back  to  King  Harald 
and  tell  him  of  this  word  of  the  maiden,  calling  her  overbold 
and  witless,  and  saying  withal  that  it  would  be  but  meet  for 
the  king  to  send  after  her  with  many  men,  for  the  doing  of 
some  shame  to  her.  Then  answered  the  king  that  the  maid 
had  spoken  naught  of  ill,  and  done  naught  worthy  of  evil 
reward.  Rather  he  bade  her  much  thanks  for  her  word,  "  For 


272  LITERATURE  OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

she  lias  brought  to  my  mind  that  matter  which  it  now  seems 
to  me  wondrous  I  have  not  had  in  my  mind  heretofore."  And 
moreover  he  said,  "This  oath  I  make  fast,  and  swear  before 
that  God  who  made  me  and  rules  over  all  things,  that  never 
will  I  cut  my  hair  nor  comb  it  till  I  have  gotten  to  me  all 
Norway,  with  the  scat  [revenue]  thereof  and  the  dues,  and 
all  rule  thereover,  or  else  will  I  die  rather.' '  For  this  word 
Duke  Guthorm  thanked  him  much,  and  said  it  were  a  work 

worthy  of  a  king  to  hold  fast  this  word  of  his 

Now  King  Harald  was  feasting  in  Mere  at  Earl 

Rognvald's,  and  had  now  gotten  to  him  all  the  land.  So 
King  Harald  took  a  bath  and  then  he  let  his  hair  be  combed, 
and  then  Earl  Rognvald  sheared  it.  And  heretofore  it  had 
been  unshorn  and  uncombed  for  ten  winters.  Aforetime  he 
had  been  called  Shockhead,  but  now  Earl  Rognvald  gave  him 
a  by-name  and  called  him  Harald  Harfagr  (Fair  hair),  and  all 
who  saw  him  said  that  that  was  a  most  proper  name,  for 
he  had  most  plenteous  hair  and  goodly. 

THE  BIRTH  OF  OLAF  TRYGGVESSON. 

KING  TRYGGVE  OLAFSSON  had  married  a  wife  who  was 
called  Astrid.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Eric  Biodaskalde,  a 
great  man,  who  dwelt  at  Ofrostad.  But  after  Tryggve's 
death  Astrid  fled,  and  privately  took  with  her  all  the  loose 
property  she  could.  Her  foster-father,  Thoralf  L/usiskiaeg, 
followed  her,  and  never  left  her ;  and  others  of  her  faithful 
followers  spied  about  to  discover  her  enemies,  and  where 
they  were.  Astrid  was  pregnant  with  a  child  of  King 
Tryggve,  and  she  went  to  a  lake,  and  concealed  herself  in  a 
holm  or  small  island  in  it  with  a  few  men.  Here  her  child 
was  born,  and  it  was  a  boy ;  and  water  was  poured  over  it, 
and  it  was  called  Olaf  after  the  grandfather.  Astrid  remained 
all  summer  here  in  concealment ;  but  when  the  nights 
became  dark,  and  the  day  began  to  shorten  and  the  weather 
to  be  cold,  she  was  obliged  to  take  to  the  land,  along  with 
Thoralf  and  a  few  other  men.  They  did  not  seek  for  houses, 
unless  in  the  night  time,  when  they  came  to  them  secretly ; 
and  they  spoke  to  nobody.  One  evening,  towards  dark,  they 


SCANDINAVIAN   LITERATURE.  273 

came  to  Ofrostad,  where  Astrid's  father  Eric  dwelt,  and  pri- 
vately sent  a  man  to  Eric  to  tell  him ;  and  Eric  took  them 
to  an  out-house,  and  spread  a  table  for  them  with  the  best  of 
food.  When  Astrid  had  been  here  a  short  time  her  travelling 
attendants  left  her,  and  none  remained  behind  with  her  but 
two  servant  girls,  her  child  Olaf,  Thoralf  Lusiskiseg,  and  his 
son  Thorgils,  who  was  six  years  old ;  and  they  remained  all 
winter. 

After  Tryggve  Olafsson's  murder,  Harald  Greyskin  and  his 
brother  Gudrod  went  to  the  farm  which  he  owned ;  but 
Astrid  was  gone,  and  they  could  learn  no  tidings  of  her.  A 
loose  report  came  to  their  ears  that  she  was  pregnant  to  King 
Tryggve  ;  but  they  went  away  northwards,  as  before  related. 
As  soon  as  they  met  their  mother  Gunhild,  they  told  her  all 
that  had  taken  place.  She  inquired  particularly  about  Astrid, 
and  they  told  her  the  report  they  had  heard ;  but  as  Gun- 
hild's  sons  the  same  harvest  and  winter  after  had  bickerings 
with  Earl  Hakon,  as  before  related,  they  did  not  seek  after 
Astrid  and  her  son  that  winter. 

The  spring  after  Gunhild  sent  spies  to  the  Uplands,  and 
all  the  way  down  to  Viken,  to  spy  what  they  could  about 
Astrid ,  and  her  men  came  back,  and  could  only  tell  her  that 
Astrid  must  be  with  her  father  Eric,  and  it  was  probable  was 
bringing  up  her  infant,  the  son  of  Tryggve.  Then  Gunhild, 
without  delay,  sent  off  men  well  furnished  with  arms  and 
horses,  and  in  all  a  troop  of  thirty ;  and  as  their  leader  she 
sent  a  particular  friend  of  her  own,  a  powerful  man  called 
Hakon.  Her  orders  were  to  go  to  Ofrostad  to  Eric,  and  take 
King  Tryggve' s  son  from  thence,  and  bring  the  child  to  her ; 
and  with  these  orders  the  men  went  out.  Now  when  they 
were  come  to  the  neighborhood  of  Ofrostad,  some  of  Eric's 
friends  observed  the  troop  of  travellers,  and  about  the  close 
of  the  day  brought  him  word  of  their  approach.  Eric  imme- 
diately, in  the  night,  made  preparation  for  Astrid's  flight, 
gave  her  good  guides,  and  sent  her  away  eastward  to  Sweden, 
to  his  good  friend  Hakon  Gamle,  who  was  a  powerful  man 
there.  Long  before  day  they  departed,  and  towards  evening 
they  reached  a  domain  called  Skon.  Here  they  saw  a  large 
mansion,  towards  which  they  went,  and  begged  a  night's 
iv— 1 8 


274  LITERATURE  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

lodging.  For  the  sake  of  concealment  they  clad  in  mean 
clothing.  There  dwelt  here  a  bonder  called  Biorn  Edder- 
quise,  who  was  very  rich,  but  very  inhospitable.  He  drove 
them  away;  and,  therefore,  towards  dark,  they  went  to 
another  domain  close  by  that  was  called  Vither.  Thorstein 
was  the  name  of  the  bonder ;  and  he  gave  them  lodging,  and 
took  good  care  of  them,  so  that  they  slept  well,  and  were  well 
entertained.  Early  that  morning  Gunhild's  men  had  come 
to  Ofrostad,  and  inquired  for  Astrid  and  her  son.  As  Eric 
told  them  she  was  not  there,  they  searched  the  whole  house, 
and  remained  till  late  in  the  day  before  they  got  any  news  of 
Astrid.  Then  they  rode  after  her  the  way  she  had  taken,  and 
late  at  night  they  came  to  Biorn  Edderquise  in  Skon,  and 
took  up  their  quarters  there.  Hakon  asked  Biorn  if  he  knew 
anything  about  Astrid,  and  he  said  some  people  had  been 
there  in  the  evening  wanting  lodgings  ;  ' '  but  I  drove  them 
away,  and  I  suppose  they  have  gone  to  some  of  the  neighbor- 
ing houses." 

Now  Thorstein' s  laborer  was  coming  from  the  forest, 
having  left  his  work  at  nightfall,  and  called  in  at  Biorn' s 
house  because  it  was  in  his  way ;  and  finding  there  were 
guests  come  to  the  house,  and  learning  their  business,  he 
conies  to  Thorstein  and  tells  him  of  it.  As  about  a  third 
part  of  the  night  was  still  remaining,  Thorstein  wakens  his 
guests,  and  orders  them  in  an  angry  voice  to  go  about  their 
business  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  house  upon  the 
road,  Thorstein  tells  them  that  Gunhild's  messengers  were  at 
Biorn' s  house,  and  are  upon  the  trace  of  them.  They  entreat 
of  him  to  help  them,  and  he  gave  them  a  guide  and  some 
provisions.  He  conducted  them  through  the  forest  to  a  lake, 
in  which  there  was  an  islet  overgrown  with  reeds.  They 
waded  out  to  the  islet,  and  hid  themselves  among  the  reeds. 
Early  in  the  morning  Hakon  rode  away  from  Biorn' s  into 
the  township,  and  wherever  he  came  he  asked  after  Astrid  ; 
and  when  he  came  to  Thorstein' s  he  asked  if  she  had  been 
there.  He  said  that  some  people  had  been  there  ;  but  as  soon 
as  it  was  daylight  they  had  set  off  again,  eastwards,  to  the 
forest.  Hakon  made  Thorstein  go  along  with  them,  as  he 
knew  all  the  roads  and  hiding-places.  Thorstein  went  with 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  275 

them  ;  but  when  they  were  come  into  the  woods,  he  led  them 
right  across  the  way  Astrid  had  taken.  They  went  about  and 
about  the  whole  day  to  no  purpose,  as  they  could  find  no 
trace  of  her ;  so  they  turned  back  to  tell  Gunhild  the  end  of 
their  travel.  Astrid  and  her  friends  proceeded  on  their  jour- 
ney, and  came  to  Sweden,  to  Hakon  Gamle  (the  Old),  where 
she  and  her  son  remained  a  long  time,  and  had  friendly 
welcome. 

THE  WEDDING  OF  OLAF  TRYGGVESSON. 

OLAF  lay  by  Borgund-holm,  but  there  got  they  bitter 
wind  and  a  storm  at  sea,  so  that  they  might  no  longer  lie 
there,  but  sailed  south  under  Wendland,  and  got  there  good 
haven,  and  faring  full  peacefully,  abode  there  awhile. 

Burislaf  was  the  name  of  the  king  in  Wendland,  whose 
daughters  were  Geira,  Gunnhild  and  Astrid.  Now  Geira,  the 
king's  daughter,  had  rule  and  dominion  there,  where  Olaf 
and  his  folk  came  to  the  land,  and  Dixin  was  the  name  of 
him  who  had  most  authority  under  Queen  Geira.  And  so 
when  they  heard  that  alien  folk  were  come  to  the  land,  even 
such  as  were  noble  of  mien,  and  held  them  ever  in  peaceful 
wise,  then  fared  Dixin  to  meet  them  with  this  message,  that 
she  bade  those  new-come  men  to  guest  with  her  that  winter- 
tide,  for  the  summer  was  now  far  spent  and  the  weather  hard 
and  storms  great.  So  when  Dixin  was  come  there  he  saw 
speedily  that  the  captain  of  these  men  is  a  noble  man  both  of 
kin  and  aspect.  Dixin  told  them  that  the  queen  bade  them 
to  her  in  friendly  wise.  So  Olaf  took  her  bidding,  and  fared 
that  autumn-tide  unto  Queen  Geira,  and  either  of  them  was 
wondrous  well  pleased  with  the  other,  so  that  Olaf  fell  a  woo- 
ing, and  craved  Queen  Geira  to  wife.  And  it  was  brought  to 
pass  that  he  wedded  her  that  winter,  and  became  ruler  of  that 
realm  with  her.  Hallfred  the  Troublous-skald  telleth  of  this 
in  the  Drapa  [song]  he  made  upon  Olaf  the  King : 

The  king  he  made  the  hardened 
Corpse-banes  in  blood  be  reddened 
At  Holme  and  east  in  Garth-realm. 
Yea,  why  should  the  people  hide  it? 


276 


LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

THE  winter  after  King  Olaf  came  from 
Halogaland,  he  had  a  great  vessel  built  at  Lade- 
hammer,  which  was 
larger  than  any  ship 
in  the  country,  and  of 
which  the  beam-knees 
are  still  to  be  seen. 
The  length  of  keel 
that  rested  upon  the 
grass  was  seventy-four 
ells.  Thorberg  Skaft- 
ing  was  the  man's 
name  who  was  the 
master-builder  of  the 
ship;  but  there  were 
many  others  besides, 
— some  to  fell  wood, 
some  to  shape  it,  some 
to  make  nails,  some 
to  carry  timber;  and 
all  that  was  used  was 
of  the  best.  The  ship  was  both  long  and  broad  and  high- 
sided,  and  strongly  timbered.  While  they  were  planking  the 
ship,  it  happened  that  Thorberg  had  to  go  home  to  his  farm 
upon  some  urgent  business  ;  and  as  he  remained  there  a  long 
time,  the  ship  was  planked  up  on  both  sides  when  he  came 
back.  In  the  evening  the  king  went  ont,  and  Thorberg  with 
him,  to  see  how  the  vessel  looked,  and  every  body  said  that 
never  was  seen  so  large  and  so  beautiful  a  ship  of  war.  Then 
the  king  returned  to  the  town.  Early  next  morning  the  king 
returns  again  to  the  ship,  and  Thorberg  with  him.  The 
carpenters  were  there  before  them,  but  all  were  standing  idle 
with  their  arms  across.  The  king  asked  "what  was  the 
matter?"  They  said  the  ship  was  destroyed;  for  somebody 
had  gone  from  stem  to  stern,  and  cut  one  deep  notch  after 
the  other  down  the  one  side  of  the  planking.  When  the, 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  277 

king  came  nearer  he  saw  it  was  so,  and  said,  with  an  oath, 
"The  man  shall  die  who  has  thus  destroyed  the  vessel  out  of 
envy,  if  he  can  be  discovered,  and  I  shall  bestow  a  great 
reward  on  whoever  finds  him  out." 

"I  can  tell  you,  king,"  says  Thorberg,  "who  has  done 
this  piece  of  work." 

"I  don't  think,"  replies  the  king,  "that  any  one  is  so 
likely  to  find  it  out  as  thou  art." 

Thorberg  says,  "  I  will  tell  you,  king,  who  did  it.  I  did 
it  myself." 

The  king  says,  "  Thou  must  restore  it  all  to  the  same  con- 
dition as  before,  or  thy  life  shall  pay  for  it. ' ' 

Then  Thorberg  went  and  chipped  the  planks  until  the 
deep  notches  were  all  smoothed  and  made  even  with  the  rest ; 
and  the  king  and  all  present  declared  that  the  ship  was  much 
handsomer  on  the  side  of  the  hull  which  Thorberg  had 
chipped,  and  bade  him  shape  the  other  side  in  the  same  way, 
and  gave  him  great  thanks  for  the  improvement.  Afterwards 
Thorberg  was  the  master-builder  of  the  ship  until  she  was 
entirely  finished.  The  ship  was  a  dragon,  built  after  the  one 
the  king  had  captured  in  Halogaland  ;  but  this  ship  was  far 
larger,  and  more  carefully  put  together  in  all  her  parts.  The 
king  called  this  ship  "  Serpent  the  Long,' '  and  the  other  "  Ser- 
pent the  Short. ' '  The  Long  Serpent  had  thirty-four  benches 
for  rowers.  The  head  and  the  arched  tail  were  both  gilt,  and 
the  bulwarks  were  as  high  as  in  sea-going  ships.  This  ship 
was  the  best  and  most  costly  ship  ever  made  in  Norway. 

OLAF'S  DOG  VIGI. 

Now  when  Olaf  was  in  Ireland  he  was  warring  on  a  time, 
and  on  shipboard  they  fared  and  needed  a  strand-slaughtering. 
When  the  men  went  on  land  and  drove  down  many  beasts, 
then  came  to  them  a  certain  goodman  who  prayed  Olaf  to 
give  him  back  his  own  cows.  Olaf  bade  him  take  them  if  he 
could  find  them:  "But  let  him  not  delay  the  journey!" 
Now  the  goodman  had  there  a  great  herd-dog,  to  which  dog 
he  showed  the  herd  of  neat,  whereof  were  being  driven  many 
hundreds.  Then  the  hound  ran  all  about  the  herd,  and  drave 


278  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

away  just  so  many  neat  as  the  goodman  had  claimed  for  his, 
and  they  were  all  marked  in  one  wise  ;  wherefore  men  deemed 
it  sure  that  the  hound  verily  knew  them  aright,  and  they 
thought  him  wondrous  wise.  Then  asked  Olaf  of  the  good- 
man if  he  would  sell  his  hound.  "With  a  good  will,"  said 
the  goodman.  But  the  king  gave  him  a  gold  ring  there  and 
then  and  promised  to  be  his  friend.  That  dog  was  called 
Vigi,  and  was  the  best  of  all  dogs.  Olaf  had  him  for  long 
afterward. 

QUEEN  SIGRID  THE  HAUGHTY. 

QUEEN  SIGRID  in  Sweden,  who  had  for  surname  the 
Haughty,  sat  in  her  mansion,  and  during  the  same  winter 
messengers  went  between  King  Olaf  and  Sigrid  to  propose 
his  courtship  to  her,  and  she  had  no  objection ;  and  the 
matter  was  fully  and  fast  resolved  upon.  Thereupon  King 
Olaf  sent  to  Queen  Sigrid  the  great  gold  ring  he  had  taken 
from  the  temple  door  of  Lade,  which  was  considered  a  dis- 
tinguished ornament.  The  meeting  for  concluding  the  busi- 
nesss  was  appointed  to  be  in  spring  on  the  frontier,  at  the 
Gptha  river.  Now  the  ring  which  King  Olaf  had  sent  Queen 
Sigrid  was  highly  prized  by  all  men;  yet  the  queen's  gold- 
smiths, two  brothers,  who  took  the  ring  in  their  hands,  and 
weighed  it,  spoke  quietly  to  each  other  about  it,  and  in  a 
manner  that  made  the  queen  call  them  to  her,  and  ask,  "what 
they  smiled  at?"  But  they  would  not  say  a  word,  and  she 
commanded  them  to  say  what  it  was  they  had  discovered. 
Then  they  said  the  ring  is  false.  Upon  this  she  ordered  the 
ring  to  be  broken  in  pieces,  and  it  was  found  to  be  copper 
inside.  Then  the  queen  was  enraged,  and  said  that  Olaf 
would  deceive  her  in  more  ways  than  this  one. 

Early  in  spring  King  Olaf  went  eastwards  to  Konghelle 
to  the  meeting  with  Queen  Sigrid ;  and  when  they  met  the 
business  was  considered  about  which  the  winter  before  they 
had  held  communication,  namely,  their  marriage ;  and  the 
business  seemed  likely  to  be  concluded.  But  when  Olaf 
insisted  that  Sigrid  should  let  herself  be  baptized,  she 
answered  thus :  "  I  must  not  part  from  the  faith  which  I  have 
held,  and  my  forefathers  before  me ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  279 

I  shall  make  no  objection  to  your  believing  in  the  god  that 
pleases  you  best."  Then  King  Olaf  was  enraged,  and 
answered  in  a  passion,  "Why  should  I  care  to  have  thee,  an 
old  faded  woman,  and  a  heathen  jade  ?"  and  therewith  struck 
her  in  the  face  with  his  glove  which  he  held  in  his  hands, 
rose  up,  and  they  parted.  Sigrid  said,  "This  may  some  day 
be  thy  death."  The  king  set  off  to  Viken,  the  queen  to 
Sweden. 

SAGA  OF  FRITHIOF  THE  BOLD. 

THE  author  of  this  famous  epic — for  such  it  is,  though 
given  in  a  series  of  ballads  in  varying  measures  to  suit  the 
events  described — is  unknown ;  it  is  ascribed  to  the  twelfth 
century.  The  modern  Swedish  poet  Esaias  Tegner  has  trans- 
lated it.  It  opens  with  the  childhood  of  Frithiof  and  Inge- 
borg  on  the  sea-shore  ;  he  glad  to  dare  the  waves,  climb  the 
cliffs,  and  climb  trees,  to  give  her  pleasure.  Becoming  a 
great  hunter,  he  one  day  brings  her  the  carcass  of  a  great 
bear  as  a  trophy  of  his  prowess.  Seeing  that  she  embroiders 
on  her  tapestry  legends  of  the  gods  and  goddesses,  he  swears 
that  no  divinity  could  equal  her.  The  foster-parents  of  the 
lovers  frown  upon  their  love,  making  it  known  that  Frithiof 
is  only  the  son  of  Thorsten  Vikingsson,  while  she  is  daughter 
of  King  Bele.  But  she  tells  how  King  Bele  with  Frithiof's 
father  by  his  side  calls  his  sons  Hege  and  Halfden  to  give 
them  his  last  counsels  before  he  dies.  The  one  is  an  austere 
priest,  the  other  a  delicately  natured  youth.  With  these 
comes  young  Frithiof;  and  after  the  king  has  given  his 
counsel,  Frithiof's  father  addresses  similar  advice  to  him,  for 
he  means  to  die  with  his  king.  Bele  now  commends  his 
daughter  Ingeborg  to  the  care  of  his  sons.  After  the  king's 
death  Helge  and  Halfden  divide  the  kingdom  and  Frithiof 
settles  in  his  ancestral  home,  in  which  are  three  treasures — 
the  sword  Angurvadel,  the  gold  arm-ring  of  Vauland,  and 
the  dragon-ship  "Ellida."  In  due  course  Frithiof  claims 
Ingeborg  as  his  bride,  and  is  refused  by  the  brothers.  Old 
King  Ring  also  asks  her  in  marriage,  and  being  likewise 
refused  declares  war  against  Helge  and  Halfden.  One  day, 


280  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Frithiof  playing  chess  with  his  friend  Bjorn,  Ingeborg's 
foster-father  enters  and  says  that  Helge  and  Halfden  ask  his 
help  against  Ring.  Frithiof,  continuing  his  game,  remarks 
that  a  pawn  may  save  a  king,  and  that  the  queen  must  be 
reserved.  At  last  he  answers  that  since  Helge  and  Halfden 
have  wounded  his  honor  he  cannot  save  them.  After  many 
stirring  episodes,  the  story  ends  with  the  happiness  of  the 
lovers. 

FRITHIOF  AND  INGEBORE. 

IN  this  rendering  of  Tegner's  "  Frithiof 's  Saga,"  by  R.  G. 
Latham,  the  name  Ingeborg  is  made  Ingebore  and  Ingeborow  for 
metrical  reasons. 

IN  Hilding's  hut  and  Norway's  clime, 
Grew  two  sweet  plants  in  perfect  prime ; 
And  ne'er  before  were  fairer  given 
To  smile  on  earth  or  gaze  at  heaven. 
There  grew  the  sturdiest  of  them, 
I,ike  sapling  oak  with  spear-shaped  stem ; 
Whose  crest,  as  e'en  a  helmet's  glancing, 
Wooed  each  wild  wind  to  keep  it  dancing. 
And  one  was  like  a  rose,  the  day 
That  Christmas  chills  have  passed  away; 
And  spring,  within  its  burning  bosom, 
Dreams  of  its  fast  unfolding  blossom. 
When  storms  shall  drive  where  winds  may  blow 
The  oak  shall  brave  both  wind  and  snow  ; 
But  summer's  sun  and  springtide's  shower 
Shall  help  to  ope  that  rose's  flower. 
I  say,  they  grew  towards  flowers  and  fruit, 
And  Frithiof  was  the  sapling  shoot ; 
And  Ingebore  the  rose  that  vied  it, 
The  lovely  rose  that  blushed  beside  it. 

Who  sees  the  pair  while  sunbeams  shine, 
May  deem  himself  in  Freya's  shrine; 
Where  urchin  loves  be  deftly  going 
With  wings  of  light  and  tresses  flowing. 
Who  sees  them  with  the  pale  moonlight 
To  lead  their  dancing  steps  aright, 
May  deem  there  trip  it,  light  and  airy, 
The  elfin  king  and  queen  of  faery. 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  28 1 

What  Frithiof  learned  the  day  before, 

He  taught  the  next  to  Ingebore  ; 

And  proud  was  he  when  Bele's  daughter 

Had  learned  the  letters  Frithiof  taught  her. 

If  long  and  late  they  sat  afloat, 

On  dark  blue  sea,  in  open  boat, 

It  pleased  her,  as  the  sails  were  filling, 

To  clap  her  hands  and  help  their  swelling. 

Oft  as  he  clomb  to  steal  her  nests 

From  tops  of  trees  or  mountain  crests, 

The  ravished  eagle  screaming,  clanging, 

Bewailed  their  nestlings'  eyry  hanging. 

When  floods  were  deep  and  streams  ran  hoarse, 

He  bore  his  tender  charge  across ; 

Pleased  if  the  currents  lashed  around  him, 

And  her  small  arms  the  tighter  bound  him. 

When  springtide  came  with  springtide's  host, 

He  plucked  the  flowers  she  loved  the  most ; 

The  ears  of  corn  that  first  turned  yellow, 

And  strawberries  as  each  grew  mellow. 

But  childhood's  hours  fleet  away, 
And  then  there  comes  in  later  day 
Those  looks  of  fire  in  youths  who  sue, 
And  budding  breasts  in  maids  they  woo. 
Then  Frithiof  hunted  day  by  day, 
And  brought  the  forest  spoils  away; 
Yet  few  before  had  e'er  attended, 
Such  chase  unscathed  and  undefended. 
For  bears  and  he  in  battle  brunt 
Oft  hugged  each  other  front  to  front ; 
The  stripling  won,  and  on  the  morrow 
Displayed  their  spoils  to  Ingeborow. 
Yes  !  heart  of  man  and  female  breast 
Suit  each  to  each,  like  helm  and  crest, 
When  bravest  hearts  deserve  the  dearest, 
And  strongest  hands  may  win  the  fairest. 
In  winter's  evenings  each  gave  heed 
To  runic  rhymes  they  wont  to  read  ; 
How  gods  had  loved  and  heroes  striven, 
And  how  Valhalla's  halls  were  heaven. 
The  locks  o'er  Freya's  front  of  snow 
May  wave  like  corn  when  breezes  blow ; 


282  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

One  tress  of  hers  he  valued  higher 

Than  all  the  vaunted  curls  of  Freyer. 

Iduna's  rich  and  regal  breast 

May  beat  beneath  her  silken  vest, 

And  white  it  was  ;  yet  scarcely  vying 

With  that  which  heaved  at  Frithiof  's  sighing. 

FRIDTHJOF  PLAYS  CHESS. 

IN  this  rendering,  by  George  Stephens,  the  older  form  Fridthjof  is 
used  for  Frithiof. 

BJORN  and  Fridthjof,  both  contending 
O'er  their  splendid  board  were  bending  ; 
Now  on  silver  squares  thick  gather, 
Now  on  gold,  the  struggling  foes. 
Then  came  Hilding,  gladly  greeted,  — 
"  Welcome  !  —  the  high  chair  waits,  be  seated, 
Drain  thy  horn,  kind  foster-father, 
our  doubtful  contest  close." 


"  Bele's  sons,  '  '  quoth  Hilding,  '  '  send  me  ; 
Armed  with  pray'rs,  to  thee  I  wend  me. 
Evil  tidings  round  them  hover, 
All  the  land  on  thee  relies." 
Answered  Fridthjof:  "  Bjorn,  in  danger, 
Stands  thy  king  !  beware  the  stranger  ; 
Yet  a  pawn  can  all  recover  — 
Pawns  were  made  for  sacrifice." 

"  Fridthjof,  anger  not  the  kings  so  ; 
Strong,  remember,  eaglets'  wings  grow. 
Forces  Ring  full  well  despises, 
Conquer  yet,  opposed  to  thine." 
"  Bjorn,  the  foe  my  castle  craveth  ! 
But  th'  attack  with  ease  it  braveth  ; 
Grim  and  high  the  fierce  wall  rises, 
Bright  the  shield-tow'r  shines  within." 

"  Ing'borg  wastes  the  day  in  weeping, 
Sad,  though  in  Balder'  s  sacred  keeping  ; 
Tempts  not  war  for  her  release,  and 
Mourn  unheeded  her  blue  een?  " 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  283 

"  Bjoru,  thou  in  vain  my  queen  pursuest, 
She  from  childhood  dearest,  truest ! 

She's  my  game's  most  darling  piece,  and 
Come  what  will,  I'll  save  my  queen  !  " 

"  What !  not  e'en  reply  conceded  ? 
Fridthjof,  go  I  thus  unheeded  ? 

Till  that  child's  play  yonder  endeth 

Must  my  suit  unheard  remain  ? ' ' 
Fridthjof  rose,  and  as  he  addresses 
The  old  man,  kind  his  hand  he  presses ; 

' '  Father,  nought  my  firm  soul  bendeth ; 

Thou  hast  heard,  yet  hear  again : 

"  Yes  !  my  words  take  back  unvarnished, — 
Deeply  they've  my  honor  tarnished ; 
No  strong  ties  to  them  unite  me, 
Never  will  I  be  their  man." 
"  Well,  in  thine  own  path  thou  goest ; 
I  blame  not  the  rage  thou  showest. 

All  for  the  best  guide  Odin  rightly." 
So  old  Hilding's  answer  ran. 


INGEBORE'S  LAMENT. 

THE  autumn  hath  a  bitter  breath 

And  unreposing  sea  ; 
Yet  I  would  brave  both  wind  and  wave, 

So  but  abroad  to  be. 

I  watched  his  mast  that  yester  e'en 

Sank  with  the  sinking  sun  ; 
And  blest  were  they,  both  sail  and  ray, 

To  go  where  he  was  gone. 

Gently,  gently  blow,  ye  winds, 

Over  the  billows  blue ; 
Shine  burning  bright,  ye  stars  of  night, 

Yet  shine  serenely  too. 

The  spring  shall  bring  the  wanderer  home 

Across  the  foamy  main, 
But  friend  to  greet  or  maid  to  meet, 

Shall  sigh  for  him  in  vain, 


284  LITERATURE   OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

The  maiden  that  had  welcomed  him 
Shall  be  both  stark  and  still, 

Or  only  lie  for  agony 
To  visit  her  at  will. 

His  trusty  hawk  is  left  behind, 

And  welcome  he  shall  be 
To  take  his  stand  on  Ingebore's  hand, 

And  owe  his  food  to  me. 

Which  I  will  weave  in  arras  work, 

Astart  from  off  his  glove, 
Astart  so  bold  with  claws  of  gold, 

And  silver  wings  above. 

And  Freya  in  her  widowhood 

On  falcon  wings  did  roam, 
And  wander  forth  both  east  and  north, 

To  turn  her  Oder  home. 

Even  if  thou  would  lend  me  wings, 

Far  sweeter  it  would  be, 
To  bide  my  hour  when  death's  dark  power 

Bestowed  its  wings  on  me. 

Then  watch  the  wave,  thou  hunter-bird, 
From  off  my  shoulder  here ; 

Thou  long  mayst  bide,  ere  breeze  or  tide, 
Bring  Frithiof 's  vessel  near. 

When  I  shall  lie  beneath  the  sward, 

And  he  return  again ; 
Then  tell  him  how  I  kept  my  vow, 

And  how  I  hoped  in  vain. 


SCANDINAVIAN   LITERATURE. 


285 


FRITHIOF  VISITS  KING  RING. 


KING  RING  was  on  his  throne  with  his  red  and  rosy  bride, 
A  drinking  of  his  Christmas  ale,  his  nobles  by  his  side : 
Like  Spring  and  Autumn  pairing  the  twain  did  seem  to  be, 
For  she  was  as  the  kindly  Spring,  but  Autumnlike  was  he. 
An  aged  man,  unknown  of  all,  did  step  right  boldly  in, 
His  mantle  wrapped  around  his  face,  his  clothes  were  all  of  skin, 
His  chin  was  leaned  upon  his  breast,  a  staff  in  hand  he  bare ; 
Yet  taller  he  did  seem  to  be  than  ere  a  noble  there. 
He  sat  him  on  a  lowly  bench,  the  bench  was  by  the  door, 
The  beggar  sits  there  nowadays  and  there  he  sat  of  yore  ; 
The  courtiers  smiled  and  whispers  strange  around  the  chamber 

ran, 

And  scornful  fingers  pointed  at  the  shabby  bear-skin-man. 
Then  fire  flashed  from  the  stranger's  eyes,  he  viewed  the  nobles 

round, 
He  stretched  his  hand,  he  seized  a  youth,  he  raised  him  from  the 

ground, 
He  jerked  him  up  and  twirled  him  round,  and  rocked  him  fro 

and  to, 
Then  all  the  others  held  their  tongues,  the  wisest  thing  to  do. 


286  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

' '  Who  breaks  ray  peace  and  quarrels  there,  so  wanton  and  so  free  ? 

Come  hither,  aged  Stranger,  and  tell  thy  tale  to  me ; 

Thy  name  and  wants  and  whence  ye  come  and  whitherwards 

ye  go," 

The  aged  king  all  angrily  bespoke  the  Stranger  so. 
"  Ye  ask  enough,"  that  old  man  said,  "yet  I  will  not  repine, 
To  tell  thee  all  except  my  name,  'tis  all  remains  of  mine; 
In  Anger  was  I  born  and  bred,  from  land  to  land  I  roam, 
My  last  night's  lair  was  Wolfsden,  and  Broken  is  my  home. 
In  days  of  yore  I  rode  upon  the  dragons  of  the  sea, 
Their  wings  were  spread  as  wings  of  strength  and  fast  they  flew 

with  me : 

But  now  the  bark,  that  once  was  wight,  lies  cripple  on  the  strand  ; 
Myself  am  old  and  burn  for  bread  the  salt  by  the  sea  sand. 
'Tis  all  to  see  thy  wisdom  that  I  hie  me  here  so  lorn, 
Thy  courtiers  met  me  scornfully,  no  mark  am  I  for  scorn ; 
I  gave  a  fool  a  twirl  or  so,  yet  set  the  idle  thing 
All  scathless  on  his  legs  again ;  forgive  me  that,  King  Ring." 
"Ye  speak  the  sooth,"    King  Ring  replied,    "Old  age  must 

honored  be ; 

Come,  leave  thy  lowly  cushion  there  and  sit  thee  next  to  me ; 
But  first  and  foremost  cast,  I  pray,  thy  strange  disguise  away; 
For  ill  accordeth  guest  disguised  with  princes'  festal  day. ' ' 
Down  dropped  the  shaggy  bear-skin  then,   that  ill-beseeming 

vest; 

And  lo  !  a  noble  warrior  before  them  stands  confessed ; 
Down  and  o'er  his  shoulders  broad  from  off  his  lofty  head, 
The  yellow  locks,  all  comely,  in  curls  of  gold  were  spread. 
A  mantle  o'er  his  back  was  hung  of  velvet  blue  and  rare ; 
A  silver  belt,  five  fingers  broad,  with  pictured  beasts  was  there, 
The  artist  had  embossed  it  so — and  lifelikely  they  chased, 
Bach  other  round  and  round  about  the  hero's  girdled  waist. 
A  massy  ring  of  richest  gold  was  twined  around  his  hand ; 
A  sword  was  shining  on  his  thigh  like  lightning-flash  at  stand ; 
All  calmly  and  composedly  he  viewed  the  circle  o'er, 
And  seemed  as  fair  as  Balder  bright  and  tall  as  Asa-Thor. 
The  queen  she  reddened  suddenly,  then  turned  both  pale  and  wan  ; 
So  streamers  bright  may  flaunt  with  light  the  snows  they  fall  upon  ; 
Her  heaving  bosom  beat  as  fast  below  her  tightened  vest, 
As  water-lilies  sink  and  rise  beneath  the  wild  waves'  crest. 
Now  silence  in  the  royal  hall !  now  straight  a  call  was  heard, 
The  time  was  come  for  making  vows  and  Freyer's  boar  appeared; 


co 

CO 

u. 

q 

i 

H 
a: 


SCANDINAVIAN  LITERATURE.  287 

On  shining  silver  charger  borne  its  knees  were  bent  beneath 
With  garlands  round  its  breast  of  brawn  and  fruits  between  its 

teeth. 

So  Ring  the  king  upreared  his  self  and  shook  his  locks  so  hoar, 
And  vowed  a  vow  and  laid  his  hand  on  forehead  of  the  boar : 
' '  I  swear  to  bait  bold  Frithiof,  a  dreadnought  though  he  be ; 
So  help  me,  Thor  and  Odin,  and  help  me,  mighty  Frey." 
With  bitter  smile  upreared  his  self  the  stranger  from  his  place  ; 
A  flush  of  hero-anger  was  mantling  on  his  face ; 
He  dashed  his  sword  on  table  that  thundered  as  he  spoke, 
And  each  big  warrior  started  up  from  off  his  bench  of  oak. 
' '  Now  hear,  Sir  King,  my  vow  for  me  as  I  have  heard  thine  own, 
Young  Frithiof  is  my  friend  of  old,  the  firmest  I  have  known  ; 
I  swear  to  fight  for  Frithiof,  come  thou,  come  all  thy  horde  ; 
So  help  me  my  good  Norna  [fate],  and  help  me  that  good  sword. ' ' 
King  Ring  replied,  "  Thy  speech  is  plain  and  plain  thy  speech 

should  be  ; 

For  Norman  kings  well  love  to  hear  the  words  that  fall  so  free : 
Queen !  take  the  biggest  beaker  up  and  fill  it  with  the  best, 
And  bid  him  drain  it  for  our  sake  and  bid  him  be  our  guest." 
The  noble  lady  took  the  horn,  it  stood  before  her  hand ; 
Horn  of  a  bull  King  Ring  had  slain,  the  wildest  in  the  land ; 
It  stood  on  feet  of  silver  bright,  was  bound  with  rings  of  gold, 
And  cunning  hands  had  graven  on  it  histories  of  old. 
With  downcast  eye  and  blushing  cheek  she  took  the  goblet  up, 
Her  fingers  trembled  as  she  raised  that  shining  silver  cup ; 
Not  evening  rays  so  ruddily  on  lily -blossoms  shine, 
As  on  her  taper  hands  did  burn  those  ruby  drops  of  wine. 
The  lady  set  the  goblet  down,  the  Stranger  took  it  up, 
Not  two  strong  men,  in  these  new  days,  could  drain  that  mighty 

cup; 

When  lightly  and  unblenchingly  to  please  the  gracious  queen, 
The  valiant  hero  drank  it  dry  nor  took  one  breath  between. 
A  minstrel  sat  beside  the  throne,  he  sang  his  best  that  day, 
And  told  a  tale  of  tenderness,  an  old  Norwegian  lay; 
Of  Hacbart's  fates  and  Signe's  love — his  voice  was  sweet  and  low, 
That  iron  hearts  began  to  melt,  and  tears  were  seen  to  flow. 
He  changed  his  hand  and  turned  to  sing  Valhalla's  championry, 
How  kings  of  old  had  fought  by  land,  and  how  they  swam  by  sea ; 
Then  gleamed  each  eye  and  shone  each  blade  with  hero-like 

intent, 
And  fleetly  round  the  drinking-board  the  mighty  beaker  went. 


288  LITERATURE  OF  ALJ,  NATIONS. 

And  now  the  duties  of  the  night,  the  drinking-deep  began ; 
I  say  that  every  chieftain  there  drank  dry  a  Christmas  can ; 
They  went  to  bed,  as  best  they  might,  when  that  carouse  was  o'er, 
But  Ring,  the  king,  that  aged  man  did  sleep  with  Ingebore. 

THE  RECONCILIATION. 

WHEN  Frithiof  returns  from  his  wanderings  a  new  temple  to 
Balder  has  been  finished.  He  witnesses  the  solemn  ceremonies  of  the 
dedication,  and  his  spirit  is  deeply  moved.  Then  the  aged  priest  bids 
him  welcome,  expounds  the  religion  of  the  Norsemen,  and  especially 
the  doctrine  of  expiation.  The  priest  continues  as  follows  : 

"  Dost  thou  not  hate  ?  hast  thou  not  taught  to  fear, 
The  royal  brothers,  that  thou  shouldst  revere  ? 
Only  because  their  taunting  chafed  thy  scorn, 
And  held  a  bondsman's  son  too  meanly  born 
To  mix  his  blood,  and  sit  beside  the  throne 
Of  their  fair  sister,  that  was  Odin's  own. 
True,  thou  may'st  tell  me  pride  in  noble  birth 
Is  all  to  fortune  due,  and  nought  to  worth  : 
But  tell  me,  Frithiof,  for  thy  bosom  can, 
Does  Chance  or  Merit  make  the  proudest  man  ? 
There  is  no  Chance — what  seems  as  such  is  given 
An  unearned  bounty  at  the  hands  of  Heaven  ; 
And  humblest  men  are  they  who  learn  to  prize, 
More  than  their  own  deserts,  the  gifts  of  Deities. 
Thyself  art  proud  of  thy  victorious  brand, 
And  proud,  to  madness,  of  thine  iron  hand : 
But  was  it  thou,  or  was  it  Asa-Thor  [the  god  Thor], 
That  strung  thy  oak-tree  sinews  for  the  war  ? 
Is  it  thine  own,  that  heaven-inspired  strength, 
Swells  in  thy  bosom,  till  it  bursts  at  length  ? 
Is  it  thine  own,  that  where  thy  eye-balls  turn, 
There  lightning  seems  to  flash,  and  fire  to  burn  ? 
No— higher  Nornas  [Fates],  on  thy  natal  day, 
Sung  o'er  thy  cradle  some  auspicious  lay; 
This  is  the  merit  in  thy  warlike  worth, — 
Nor  less,  nor  greater  than  a  king's  in  birth. 
Speak  not  of  pride  in  over-harsh  a  tone, 
I^est  the  rude  words  condemn  thee  for  thine  own. 

And  now  that  Helge's  fallen  " "  Where  and  when?" 

Such  the  short  speech  that  broke  from  Frithiof  then.  ' 


SCANDINAVIAN   LITERATURE.  289 

"Vexing  with  war,  he  sallied  out,  to  chase 
The  mountain-dwellers  of  the  L,apland  race. 
Built  on  a  cliff  there  stood,  beside  the  way, 
A  temple,  dedicate  to  Yumala ;  * 
Tottering  itself,  over  the  archway  stood 
A  massy  form  of  what  they  deemed  a  god  : 
None  had  approached  it ;  for  a  legend  ran 
From  ancient  sire  to  son,  from  man  to  man, 
Amongst  his  worshippers,  that  who  first  lay 
His  hand  upon  it  should  see  Yumala. 
When  Helge  heard  he  clonib  the  winding  stair, 
In  scorn  of  him  who  sat  enshrined  there ; 
The  door  was  bolten  to — he  seized  to  shake 
The  rusted  hinges,  stern  enough  to  break ; 
The  image,  that  had  threatened  to  descend, 
Fell  on  his  scalp ;  it  crushed  the  Asa's  friend ; 
So  he  saw  Yumala — and  this  was  Helge' s  end. 
Now  Halfdan  sits  alone  in  Bele's  chair  ; 
Proffer  thy  hand,  and  leave  thy  hatred  there. 
Else  is  the  God  but  mocked  by  this  fair  fane, 
And  I,  his  priest,  invoked  him  here  in  vain." 

Just  as  the  priest  had  ended,  Halfdan  trod 
Across  the  copper  threshold  of  the  God : 
Silent,  uncertain  how  to  speak,  he  stood 
Beside  the  door,  and,  at  his  distance,  viewed, 
With  eye  askant,  and  half-uplifted  head, 
The  foe  he  had  not  yet  unlearned  to  dread. 
Familiar  with  being  feared,  the  chief  unbraced 
The  helmet-hater,  girded  on  his  waist ; 
Leaned  his  broad  buckler  on  the  altar's  stone, 
And  wore  for  arms  his  native  strength  alone. 
"  In  strife  like  ours,  where  ancient  feuds  should  cease, 
He  wins  the  palm  who  sues  the  first  for  peace." 
Then  first  the  blood  returned  to  Halfdan's  cheek; 
Then  first  his  lips,  reluctant,  strove  to  speak : 
Swift  as  a  merlin  from  the  falconer's  fist, 
Slipped  the  steel  gauntlet,  beaming,  from  his  wrist ; 
Firm  as  a  rock,  they  clasped,  in  friendship's  bands, 
Each  other's  long  alienated  hands. 

*  The  chief  deity  of  the  Lapps, 
iv— 19 


290  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Peace  to  thee,  Frithiof!   Balder  takes  the  ban 
From  off  the  shoulders  of  the  exiled  man. 
Joy  to  thee,  weary  wanderer !  thou  hast  felt 
That  gods  forgive  and  hearts  of  iron  melt — 
Whose  is  the  maiden  train  that  enters  now  ? 
Who  is  yon  lady  of  the  regal  brow  ? 
Bright  as  the  moon,  the  empress  of  the  sky, 
While  still  attendant  stars  stand  shining  by ; 
Lovely  and  young,  and  looking  like  a  bride, 
Before  the  rest  she  moves  to  Halfdan's  side, 
And  if  her  eye  be  wet,  her  cheek  be  pale, 
But  half  conceals  them  with  her  silver  veil. 
Is  it  because  she  loves  her  brother  best, 
That  so  she  sinks,  in  silence,  on  his  breast  ? 
No,  Frithiof,  no  !    There  is  a  voice  within, 
Stronger  than  that  of  brotherhood  or  kin. 
So  sink  the  maids  that,  not  unhoped  for,  meet 
Friends  of  their  childhood  whom  they  fear  to  greet ; 
So  proud  and  patient  bosoms  weakest  prove 
Before  the  spirits  that  alone  they  love. 
I  say,  that  Frithiof  took  her  hand,  before 
The  aoproving  brother,  and  the  priest  did  pour 
Blessings  on  Frithiof  and  Ingebore. 


THE  TUDOR  DYNASTY. 
PART  I. 

PRINTING,  introduced 
into  England  by  William 
Caxton  in  1474,  was  firmly 

established  before  the  beginning  of  the  next  century.  The 
ancient  classics,  Greek  as  well  as  Latin,  were  brought  before 
an  ever- widening .  circle  of  students,  and  soon,  by  means  of 
translations,  were  made  familiar  to  a  still  larger  multitude  of 
readers.  By  this  accession  of  knowledge  the  intellect  of 
the  people  was  mightily  aroused ;  fresh  interest  was  shown 
in  problems  of  all  kinds,  religious,  philosophical  and  social. 
Theories  of  government  and  education  were  discussed  in 
learned  treatises,  and  made  the  themes  of  romance.  The 
frenzy  for  learning  which  arose  in  Italy  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury reached  England  at  its  close.  The  ill-fated  Sir  Thomas 
More,  the  friend  of  Erasmus,  was  the  ablest  representative 
of  English  scholarship.  While  he  was  active  in  ecclesiastical 
and  political  affairs,  he  showed  remarkable  freedom  of  mind 
in  his  "Utopia,"  a  picture  of  an  ideal  commonwealth,  pub- 
lished in  I^atin  in  1516,  but  soon  translated  into  English.  The 
barbarous  execution  of  this  learned  chancellor  checked  the 
free  movement  of  literature  in  the  universities.  The  question 
of  the  papal  supremacy,  and  afterwards  controversies  about  the 
whole  system  of  Christian  faith  occupied  the  attention  of  the 
learned.  William  Tyndale,  having  avowed  his  sympathy 
with  the  "new  learning,"  as  the  teaching  of  Luther  was  called, 
was  obliged  to  go  to  the  Continent  to  carry  out  his  purpose 
of  printing  his  translation  of  the  New  Testament  directly 
from  the  Greek.  It  was  published  in  1 5  26,  and  was  followed 
by  translations  of  parts  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  treatises  in 

which  he  supported  Luther's  views  against  the  arguments  of 

291 


292  LITERATURE  OP  AU<  NATIONS. 

Sir  Thomas  More.  Tyndale's  translation,  being  the  basis  of 
the  so-called  Authorized  Version  of  the  Bible,  has  had  im- 
mense influence  on  the  English  language. 

Throughout  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century  there 
were  numerous  translations  from  Greek  and  Latin  authors, 
from  the  great  Italian  poets,  and  from  French  and  German 
writings  of  various  kinds.  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  young 
Earl  of  Surrey  visited  Italy  and  imbibed  its  poetic  spirit. 
They  introduced  the  sonnet  into  English  in  translations  and 
imitations  of  Petrarch.  Surrey  incidentally  rendered  more 
important  service  by  giving  a  translation  of  part  of  the 
.^Eneid  in  blank  verse,  which  soon  became  the  recognized 
metre  for  serious  dramatic  and  epic  poetry.  Among  the 
translators  who  supplied  material  for  cultivating  the  minds  of 
readers  and  stimulating  the  invention  of  authors,  the  most 
noted  were  Sir  Thomas  North  who  rendered,  with  idiomatic 
spirit,  "Plutarch's  Lives  of  Illustrious  Greeks  and  Romans ;" 
Sir  John  Harrington,  who  versified  Ariosto's  "Orlando 
Furioso  ; "  Fairfax,  who  performed  similar  service  for  Tasso's 
"Jerusalem  Delivered."  Translated  works  of  less  merit  and 
renown  supplied  material  for  the  enriching  labor  of  Shake- 
speare and  his  fellow-dramatists. 

The  greatest  of  the  poets  that  took  part  in  this  work  of 
translation  was  Edmund  Spenser,  who  yet  is  more  distin- 
guished for  his  original  additions  to  English  literature.  Choos- 
ing to  employ  an  archaic  style,  and  adhering  to  the  mediaeval 
allegory,  which  was  already  obsolete,  he  has  caused  his  name 
to  be  linked  with  that  of  Chaucer,  as  if  he  belonged  to  an 
earlier  period.  His  skill  is  rather  in  description,  in  the  paint- 
ing of  rural  scenes,  than  in  the  presentation  of  characters. 
Yet  he  is  so  exuberant  in  fancy,  and  so  successful  in  the 
awaking  of  the  finer  feelings  of  the  soul,  that  he  has  ever 
been  a  favorite  poet  with  poets.  To  him  the  English  language 
owes  the  elaborate  Spenserian  stanza  of  nine  lines.  Though 
his  grand  poetic  powers  were  dedicated  to  the  glorification  of 
the  Virgin  Queen,  he  received  but  little  substantial  reward. 

The  greater  glory  of  the  Elizabethan  period  belongs  to 
the  dramatists  who  then  leaped  into  sudden  fame.  The  medi- 
aeval miracle-plays  which  had  been  intended  by  the  clergy 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  293 

to  instruct  the  common  people  in  Scripture  history,  and  to 
impress  doctrine  by  apt  examples,  soon  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  religious  orders,  and  afterwards  into  the  direction  of 
the  trade-guilds,  which  had  grown  to  power  in  the  large 
towns.  Though  still  given  under  sanction  of  the  Church, 
they  were  rendered  more  acceptable  to  the  vulgar  taste  of  the 
town  rabble  by  scenes  of  common  life  interjected  among  the 
more  exact  renderings  of  the  Biblical  narrative.  Instead  of 
these  scriptural  "Mysteries,"  allegorical  "Moralities," 
founded  on  the  mediaeval  poems  of  that  class,  were  offered  to 
the  more  fastidious  courts  and  pedantic  colleges.  For  the 
latter  there  were  also  occasional  adaptations  of  Plautus  and 
Terence,  which  served  as  models  when  the  dramatic  genius 
of  England  was  aroused  to  its  marvellous  activity. 

The  homely  scenes  which  had  served  to  enliven  the  more 
solemn  parts  of  the  Mysteries  and  Moralities  were  the  germ  of 
the  later  comedies.  The  earliest  English  comedy  was  "Ralph 
Roister  Doister,"  written  by  Nicholas  Udall,  head-master  of 
Eton  College.  Its  date  is  uncertain,  but  it  was  quoted  in 
1551.  There  were  thirteen  dramatis  personse,  nine  male  and 
four  female,  and  the  principal  ones  are  strongly  discriminated. 

"Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,"  an  inferior  piece,  formerly 
claimed  the  priority;  it  was  printed  in  1575,  and  is  said  to 
have  been  written  by  John  Still,  afterwards  a  bishop.  Another 
bishop,  John  Bale,  wrote  a  vigorous  historical  drama  called 
' '  Kynge  Johan. ' '  Among  the  characters  appear  various 
allegorical  personages,  such  as  Civil  Order,  Treason,  Nobility, 
Imperial  Majesty,  attesting  the  powerful  hold  which  allegory 
still  preserved  on  the  mind  of  the  learned.  The  earliest 
tragedy  was  "  Ferrex  and  Porrex  "  or  "Gorbuduc,"  which 
was  played  before  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1561.  It  was  com- 
posed by  Thomas  Sackville,  who  also  contributed  to  "  The 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  and  Thomas  Norton,  who  was  a 
leader  of  the  Puritans.  Though  a  drama  in  form,  it  is  wholly 
undramatic  in  spirit,  yet  not  altogether  devoid  of  poetry. 
Each  act  was  preceded  by  a  "dumb  show,"  setting  forth  the 
part  of  the  story  that  was  to  follow.  A  chorus  was  also  em- 
ployed as  in  some  plays  of  Shakespeare. 

None   of  the  dramas  which   appeared  before   1580  has 


794  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

taken  a  sure  place  in  English  literature,  but  within  the  decade 
succeeding  a  crowd  of  dramatists  arose  whose  works  are 
recognized  as  part  of  the  inheritance  of  English-speaking 
people.  The  greatest  of  these  was  Christopher  Marlowe, 
who,  though  often  turgid  and  bombastic,  displayed  wonderful 
power  in  depicting  scenes  of  terror  and  pathos.  Robert 
Greene,  who  died  in  1592,  was  a  versatile  and  unequal  writer, 
whose  comedies  are  but  rude  farces.  Other  writers  of  this 
period  are  John  Lyly,  noted  as  the  author  of  the  fantastic 
"Euphues,"  Thomas  Kyd,  author  of  the  "Spanish  Tragedy," 
and  Thomas  Lodge,  who  wrote  in  1590  a  prose  tale  "  Rosa- 
lynde,"  which  furnished  the  basis  of  Shakespeare's  "As  You 
Like  It."  All  of  these  writers  were  college-bred  men  and 
classical  scholars. 

They  were  all  to  be  surpassed  and  even  superseded  on 
their  own  chosen  ground  by  a  youth  from  Stratford-on-Avon, 
who  starting  in  a  humble  position  at  a  London  theatre,  soon 
became  actor,  author,  manager,  and  proprietor,  and  then  at 
the  age  of  forty-eight  having  won  worldly  fame  and  fortune, 
retired  to  his  native  town  to  enjoy  his  wealth  in  peace.  The 
fame  of  this  modest  toiler  in  the  world  of  letters  has  steadily 
grown  since  his  death  until  now  the  age  in  which  he  lived  is 
recognized  by  the  name  of  the  player  Shakespeare  as  by  that 
of  his  sovereign  Elizabeth.  Shakespeare  died  in  1616;  his 
career  as  a  writer  extended  over  a  quarter  of  a  century.  His 
genius  and  works  are  treated  in  a  special  article.  The  con- 
temporary dramatists,  great  as  are  their  merits  as  poets  and 
forcible  writers,  have  seldom  presented  such  consistent,  well- 
drawn  characters,  as  to  inspire  us  with  a  belief  in  the  exist- 
ence of  their  personages,  and  to  rouse  an  actual  interest  in 
analyzing  their  thoughts  and  actions.  Their  drawing  is  dis- 
torted and  often  incomplete,  the  movement  is  irregular  and 
confused,  so  that  the  attention  is  wearied  before  the  horrors 
of  the  catastrophe  are  reached.  But  the  characters  of  Shakes- 
peare's dramas  are  not  only  the  subject  of  absorbing  interest 
by  the  multitude  of  his  readers,  but  of  the  closest  investiga- 
tion by  students  of  the  human  mind.  In  the  delineation  of 
human  character,  and  of  preter-human  beings,  he  stands 
supreme. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  295 


SIR  THOMAS  MORE. 

WHETHER  the  ill-fated  Lord  Chancellor  of  Henry  VIII.  is 
regarded  as  scholar,  lawyer,  statesman,  philosopher,  religious 
leader  or  versatile  writer,  the  purity  of  his  character,  no- 
bility of  his  patriotism,  and  his  intellectual  greatness  are 
conspicuously  revealed.  To  attempt  a  detailed  account  of 
his  career  is  outside  the  present  purpose,  which  permits  but 
a  summary  of  salient  facts  without  analysis  of  their  causes. 
The  times  were  fraught  with  tremendous  issues,  religious, 
political,  and,  if  minor,  still  fateful,  personal  influences.  The 
revival  in  learning  had  neared  its  climax  when  Thomas  More 
gave  this  movement  a  new  impetus  by  the  force  of  his  ele- 
vated nature  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  gifts. 

Born  in  1478,  More's  capabilities  were  early  recognized. 
He  won  distinction  at  Oxford,  and  later,  when  about  twenty- 
three,  in  the  practice  of  law,  his  income  rising  so  high  that 
by  the  time  he  was  little  over  thirty  it  brought  him  a 
princely  income.  His  profoundly  religious  temperament  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  practice  of  asceticism,  even  in  his  great 
prosperity  and  necessarily  luxurious  surroundings.  He  gave 
lectures  on  law  and  on  the  theological  writings  of  St.  Augus- 
tine, and  became  a  member  of  Parliament  in  1 504.  Though 
a  mere  stripling  in  statecraft,  he  boldly  opposed  and  defeated 
the  customary  grant  of  a  large  subsidy  to  King  Henry  VII. 
This  step  brought  about  the  imprisonment  of  More's  father 
in  the  Tower  on  a  spiteful  accusation,  and  his  own  tactical 
withdrawal  from  public  life,  until  the  accession  of  Henry  VIII. 
brought  him  again  to  the  front.  In  his  retirement  he  translated 
from  the  Latin  of  an  unknown  author,  the  "Historic  of  the 
pittieful  Life  and  unfortunate  Death  of  King  Edward  V.  and 
the  Duke  of  York,  his  Brother." 

With  the  innate  piety  which  sweetened  his  life  and  aims 
there  was  a  strong  vein  of  intellectual  independence  which 
his  enemies  magnified  into  hostile  skepticism.  After  his 
promotion  and  knighthood  he  was  employed  by  the  crown  in 
various  offices,  to  win  him  over  to  the  king's  side.  His 
undeviating  adherence  to  the  popular  cause  led  to  efforts  to 


296  LITERATURE   OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

promote  him  where  he  would  be  out  of  the  way.  King 
Henry  made  it  his  object  to  secure  More's  friendship  by 
every  courtly  art.  By  1529  he  was  made  Lord  Chancellor 
in  place  of  the  fallen  Wolsey.  His  deep-rooted  religious 
conservatism  had  made  it  easy  for  More  to  please  the  Church 
and  king  by  lending  his  pen  to  oppose  the  innovations, 
which  were  to  him  radically  heretical.  Hence  his  long 
list  of  polemical  writings  against  Tyndale  aud  Luther  and 
their  "pestilential  sect."  His  view  of  duty  was  to  effect 
reform  of  spiritual  life  within  the  Church,  while  at  all  hazards 
maintaining  its  unity.  He  desired  reform  without  revolu- 
tion. In  carrying  out  this  conception  More  undoubtedly 
did  injustice  to  the  Protestant  cause,  and  his  actual  violence 
to  its  upholders  is  the  one  indelible  blot  on  an  otherwise 
stainless  career.  Though  he  did  not  actually  condemn  any 
heretic  to  death,  he  openly  justified  the  stake  and  allowed  his 
bigotry  to  culminate  in  acts  of  persecution.  All  this  is  in 
strange  contradiction  to  the  large  toleration  he  had  advocated 
in  his  "Utopia"  for  every  form  of  opinion.  In  the  matter 
of  the  king's  resolve  to  divorce  Catharine,  More,  as  Lord 
Chancellor,  tried  to  face  both  ways,  wishing  to  please  Henry 
as  far  as  was  compatible  with  his  sympathy  for  the  queen. 
Rather  than  actively  oppose  the  marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn 
he  resigned  his  office,  a  weakness  which  availed  him  little 
against  Henry's  vengeful  disposition.  Before  a  year  of  abso- 
lute poverty  had  passed,  the  king  had  found  excuse  for  casting 
his  insufficiently  pliant  chancellor  into  the  Tower,  where, 
after  another  year's  confinement  without  privilege  of  pen 
and  ink,  he  was  beheaded  "  for  treason,"  on  the  yth  of  July 

1535- 

The  most  famous  of  his  works  is  the  ' '  Utopia,  or  The 
Happy  Republic,"  written  in  Latin  and  published  in  1516. 
In  this  philosophico-whimsical  romance  More  ventilates  very 
advanced  opinions  upon  the  great  problems  he  foresaw  would 
demand  solution,  extending  the  intellectual  movement  beyond 
literary  and  theological  learning  into  the  realm  of  practical 
politics.  Under  the  guise  of  a  sailor's  description  of  an  imagin- 
ary island,  "Nowhere,"  he  gives  a  picture  of  ideal  govern- 
ment under  which  laws,  customs,  and  social  order  have 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE;.  297 

attained  a  perfection  hitherto  unknown.  In  not  a  few  of  his 
fanciful  flights  the  genius  of  More  penetrated  not  problems 
only,  but  some  of  the  solutions,  which  have  been  exercising 
the  wits  of  legislators  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Religious 
tolerance,  sanitation,  labor  laws,  economics,  with  other  ques- 
tions of  high  import,  find  philosophic  treatment  in  this  work, 
suggested  doubtless  by  the  "Republic"  of  Plato,  and  imi- 
tated in  a  satirical  and  burlesque  way  by  Swift  in  "Gulli- 
ver's Travels."  A  recent  critic  of  marked  ability,  Ten 
Brink,  characterizes  "Utopia"  as  "without  doubt  the  most 
brilliant  achievement  which  English  humanism  of  that  period 
has  to  show.  .  .  .  What  makes  it,  above  all,  valuable  in  the 
estimation  of  posterity,  is  the  expression  of  More's  unbiased 
and  courageous  opinions  on  political  and  religious  subjects, 
the  peculiar  combination  of  deeply  moral  and  religious 
seriousness,  and  thoroughly  conservative  ideas,  with  a  fear- 
less advance  to  higher  culture.  In  this  respect  the  work 
appears  to  us  the  matured  product  of  that  intellectual  move- 
ment in  which  Colet,  Erasmus,  and  with  them  More,  stood  as 
the  central  figures."  The  original  Latin  was  speedily  trans- 
lated into  English  by  Ralph  Robinson.  Our  extract  is  from 
the  later  translation  by  Bishop  Gilbert  Burnet. 

GOLD  IN  UTOPIA. 

IT  is  certain  that  all  things  appear  so  far  incredible  to  us 
as  they  differ  from  our  own  customs  ;  but  one  who  can  judge 
aright  will  not  wonder  to  find  that  since  their  other  constitu- 
tions differ  so  much  from  ours,  their  value  of  gold  and  silver 
should  be  measured,  not  by  our  standard,  but  by  one  that  is 
very  different  from  it ;  for  since  they  have  no  use  of  money 
among  themselves,  but  keep  it  for  an  accident,  that,  though 
it  may  possibly  fall  out,  may  have  great  intervals,  they  value 
it  no  farther  than  it  deserves  or  may  be  useful  to  them.  So 
that  it  is  plain  that  they  must  prefer  iron  either  to  gold  or  silver; 
for  men  can  no  more  live  without  iron  than  without  fire  or 
water,  but  nature  has  marked  out  no  use  for  the  other  metals 
with  which  we  may  not  very  well  dispense.  The  folly  of 
man  has  enhanced  the  value  of  gold  and  silver  because  of 


2Q8  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

their  scarcity,  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  they  reason  that  nature, 
as  an  indulgent  parent,  has  given  us  all  the  best  things  very 
freely  and  in  great  abundance,  such  as  water  and  earth,  but 
has  laid  up  and  hid  from  us  the  things  that  are  vain  and 
useless. 

If  those  metals  were  laid  up  in  any  tower  among  them,  it 
would  give  jealousy  of  the  prince  and  senate,  according  to 
that  foolish  mistrust  into  which  the  rabble  is  apt  to  fall,  as  if 
they  intended  to  cheat  the  people  and  make  advantages  to 
themselves  by  it ;  or  if  they  should  work  it  into  vessels  or  any 
sort  of  plate  they  fear  that  the  people  might  grow  too  fond 
of  it,  and  so  be  unwilling  to  let  the  plate  be  run  down  if  a 
war  made  it  necessary  to  pay  their  soldiers  with  it ;  therefore 
to  prevent  all  these  inconveniences  they  have  fallen  upon  an 
expedient  which,  as  it  agrees  with  their  other  policy,  so  is 
very  different  from  ours,  and  will  scarce  gain  belief  among 
us  who  value  gold  so  much  and  lay  it  up  so  carefully :  for 
whereas  they  eat  and  drink  out  of  vessels  of  earth  or  glass, 
that  though  they  look  very  pretty  yet  are  of  very  slight  mate- 
rials, they  make  their  chamber-pots  of  gold  and  silver,  and  that 
not  only  in  their  public  halls,  but  in  their  private  houses.  Of 
the  same  metals  they  likewise  make  chains  and  fetters  for 
their  slaves,  and  as  a  badge  of  infamy  they  hang  an  earring 
of  gold  to  some  and  make  others  wear  a  chain  or  a  coronet  of 
gold ;  and  thus  they  take  care,  by  all  manner  of  ways,  that 
gold  and  silver  may  be  of  no  esteem  among  them,  and  from 
hence  it  is  that  whereas  other  nations  part  with  their  gold 
and  their  silver  as  unwillingly  as  if  one  tore  out  their  bowels, 
those  of  Utopia  would  look  on  their  giving  in  all  their  gold 
or  silver,  when  there  were  any  use  for  it,  but  as  the  parting 
with  a  trifle,  or  as  we  would  estimate  the  loss  of  a  penny.  They 
find  pearls  on  their  coast,  and  diamonds  and  carbuncles  on 
their  rocks ;  they  do  not  look  after  them,  but  if  they  find 
them  by  chance  they  polish  them  and  with  them  they  adorn 
their  children  who  are  delighted  with  them  and  glory  in  them 
during  their  childhood,  but  when  they  grow  to  years  and  see 
that  none  but  children  use  such  baubles,  they,  of  their  own 
accord,  without  being  bid  by  their  parents,  lay  them  aside, 
and  would  be  as  much  ashamed  to  use  them  afterwards  as 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  299 

children  among  us  when  they  come  to  years  are  of  their  nuts, 
puppets  and  other  toys. 

I  never  saw  a  clearer  instance  of  the  different  impressions 
that  different  customs  make  on  people,  than  I  observed  in 
the  ambassadors  of  the  Anemolians  who  came  to  Amaurot 
when  I  was  there.  And  because  they  came  to  treat  of  affairs 
of  great  consequence  the  deputies  from  several  towns  had 
met  to  wait  for  their  coming.  The  ambassadors  of  the  nations 
that  lie  near  Utopia,  knowing  their  customs,  and  that  fine 
clothes  are  of  no  esteem  among  them,  that  silk  is  despised  and 
gold  is  a  badge  of  infamy,  used  to  come  very  modestly  clothed  ; 
but  the  Anemolians  that  lay  more  remote  and  so  had  little 
commerce  with  them,  when  they  understood  that  they  were 
coarsely  clothed  and  all  in  the  same  manner,  they  took  it  for 
granted  that  they  had  none  of  those  fine  things  among  them 
of  which  they  made  no  use,  and  they,  being  a  vain-glorious 
rather  than  a  wise  people,  resolved  to  set  themselves  out  with 
so  much  pomp  that  they  should  look  like  gods,  and  so  strike 
the  eyes  of  the  poor  Utopians  with  their  splendor.  Thus  three 
ambassadors  made  their  entry  with  a  hundred  attendants 
that  were  all  clad  in  garments  of  different  colors,  and  the 
greater  part  in  silk ;  the  ambassadors  themselves,  who  were 
of  the  nobility  of  their  country,  were  in  cloth  of  gold,  and 
adorned  with  massy  chains,  earrings  and  rings  of  gold,  their 
caps  were  covered  with  bracelets  set  full  of  pearls  and  other 
gems  ;  in  a  word  they  were  set  out  with  all  those  things  that 
among  the  Utopians  were  either  the  badges  of  slavery,  the 
marks  of  infamy  or  children's  rattles.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to 
see  on  the  one  side  how  they  looked  big  when  they  compared 
their  rich  habits  with  the  plain  clothes  of  the  Utopians,  who 
were  come  out  in  great  numbers  to  see  them  make  their 
entry.  And  on  the  other  side  to  observe  how  much  they 
were  mistaken  in  the  impression  which  they  hoped  this  pomp 
would  have  made  on  them ;  it  appeared  so  ridiculous  a  show 
to  all  that  had  never  stirred  out  of  their  country  and  so  had 
not  seen  the  customs  of  other  nations,  that  though  they  paid 
some  reverence  to  those  that  were  the  most  meanly  clad,  as  if 
they  had  been  the  ambassadors,  yet  when  they  saw  the  ambas- 
sadors themselves  so  full  of  gold  chains,  they  looked  upon 


300  LITERATURE   OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

them  as  slaves  and  made  them  no  reverence  at  all.  You  might 
have  seen  their  children,  who  were  grown  up  to  that  bigness 
that  they  had  thrown  away  their  jewels,  call  to  their  mothers 
and  push  them  gently,  and  cry  out,  "See  that  great  fool  that 
wears  pearls  and  gems  as  if  he  were  yet  a  child  ! "  And  their 
mothers  answered  them  in  good  earnest,  ' '  Hold  your  peace ; 
this  is,  I  believe,  one  of  the  ambassadors'  fools."  Others  cen- 
sured the  fashion  of  their  chains,  and  observed  that  they  were 
of  no  use,  for  they  were  too  slight  to  bind  their  slaves,  who 
could  easily  break  them,  and  they  saw  them  hang  so  loose 
about  them  that  they  reckoned  they  could  easily  throw  them 
away  and  so  get  from  them. 

But  after  the  ambassadors  had  stayed  a  day  among  them, 
and  saw  so  vast  a  quantity  of  gold  in  their  houses,  which  was 
as  much  despised  by  them  as  it  was  esteemed  in  other  nations, 
and  that  there  was  more  gold  and  silver  in  the  chains  and 
fetters  of  one  slave  than  all  their  ornaments  amounted  to, 
their  plumes  fell,  and  they  were  ashamed  of  all  that  glory  for 
which  they  had  formerly  valued  themselves,  and  so  laid  it 
aside  ;  to  which  they  were  the  more  determined  when  upon 
their  engaging  in  some  free  discourse  with  the  Utopians,  they 
discovered  their  sense  of  such  things  and  their  other  customs. 
The  Utopians  wonder  how  any  man  should  be  so  much  taken 
with  the  glaring,  doubtful  lustre  of  a  jewel  or  stone  when  he 
can  look  up  to  a  star  or  to  the  sun  himself;  or  how  any  should 
value  himself  because  his  cloth  is  made  of  a  finer  thread,  for  how 
fine  soever  that  thread  may  be,  it  was  once  no  better  than  the 
fleece  of  a  sheep,  and  that  sheep  was  a  sheep  still  for  all  its  wear- 
ing it.  They  wonder  much  to  hear  that  gold,  which  in  itself  is 
so  useless  a  thing,  should  be  everywhere  so  much  esteemed  that 
even  man  for  whom  it  was  made  and  by  whom  it  has  its  value, 
should  yet  be  thought  of  less  value  than  it  is ;  so  that  a  man 
of  lead,  who  has  no  more  sense  than  a  log  of  wood,  and  is  as 
bad  as  he  is  foolish,  should  have  many  wise  and  good  men 
serving  him  only  because  he  has  a  great  heap  of  that  metal ;  and 
if  it  should  so  happen  that  by  some  accident  or  trick  of  law, 
which  does  sometimes  produce  as  great  changes  as  chance 
itself,  all  this  wealth  should  pass  from  the  master  to  the  mean- 
est varlet  of  his  whole  family,  he  himself  would  very  soon 


ENGWSH  LITERATURE.  301 

become  one  of  his  servants,  as  if  lie  were  a  thing  that  be- 
longed to  his  wealth  and  so  were  bound  to  follow  its  fortune. 
But  they  do  much  more  admire  and  detest  their  folly,  who, 
when  they  see  a  rich  man,  though  they  neither  owe  him  any 
thing  nor  are  in  any  sort  obnoxious  to  him,  yet  merely  because 
he  is  rich  they  give  him  little  less  than  divine  honors,  even 
though  they  know  him  to  be  so  covetous  and  base-minded 
that,  notwithstanding  all  his  wealth,  he  will  not  part  with 
one  farthing  of  it  to  them  as  long  as  he  lives. 

WYATT  AND  SURREY. 

THE  glories  of  Elizabethan  literature  had  their  beginning 
in  the  intellectual  convulsions  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. , 
memorable  as  the  awakening  of  England  to  the  new  life  of 
the  revival  in  literature  and  art,  and  the  religious  revolution. 
They  were  stirring  times  for  men  of  action  as  well  as  men  of 
thought.  Even  in  the  peaceful  field  of  poetry  the  conquest  of 
the  old  forms  by  the  new  was  achieved  by  leaders  versed  in 
other  and  sterner  arts  than  the  literary,  and  it  may  seem 
strange  that  the  redemption  of  English  poetry  from  its  lost 
and  fallen  state,  into  the  high  inheritance  which  it  has  not 
yet  entirely  forfeited,  should  have  been  wrought  by  Wyatt, 
soldier, , diplomatist,  and  sometime  prisoner  in  the  Tower; 
and  by  Surrey,  the  fighting  roysterer,  who  at  thirty-one  lost 
his  head  for  alleged  treason. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  born  in  1503,  died  of  a  cold  in  1542  ; 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,  born  in  1516,  was  beheaded  in  1547. 
While  on  an  embassy,  Wyatt  came  in  contact  with  "the 
sweet  and  stately  measure  and  style  of  the  Italian  poesy," 
writes  a  contemporary,  who  declares  of  both,  ' '  they  greatly 
polished  our  rude  and  homely  manner  of  vulgar  poesy  from 
what  it  had  been  before,  and  for  that  cause  may  justly  be 
said  to  be  the  first  reformers  of  our  English  metre  and 
style."  This  verdict  stands,  with  the  important  addendum 
of  later  judgment  which  discriminates  between  rhythmical 
construction  and  poetical  spirit.  This  latter  only  came  in 
with  the  larger  freedom  of  fancy  and  style  in  the  spacious 
days  of  Elizabeth.  Except  as  indicating  the  track  of  the 


302  LITERATURE   OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

new  departure  there  is  little  value  in  the  stiffly  artificial 
poems  of  the  doleful  Wyatt  and  the  more  artistic  work  of 
Surrey,  the  brighter-witted  votary  of  Eros.  They  did  not 
wholly  renounce  the  simpler  style  of  Chaucer.  They  kept  up 
the  wholesome  ballad  rhyme  and  set  the  common  people  sing- 
ing again.  Eager  to  meet  every  taste,  both  these  men  put  the 
Psalms  of  David  into  popular  verse.  But  their  main  output 
was  courtly  poesy,  burnished  within  and  without,  to  add  the 
glitter  of  the  fashionable  foreign  movement  in  literature  to 
the  native  product,  now  in  transformation.  Wyatt  lacks  the 
lighter  graces  of  Surrey,  in  the  sonnet  (which  they  first  intro- 
duced), and  in  the  lyrics  by  which  they  are  best  remembered. 
Their  so-called  satires  owe  what  small  merits  they  have  to 
the  originals  of  which  they  are  imitations.  Surrey,  however, 
exceedingly  enriched  his  native  tongue  by  his  invention  of 
blank  verse,  first  employed  in  his  translation  of  two  books  of 
the  ^neid. 

To  His  MISTRESS. 

THE  following  is  among  the  best  examples  of  the  usually  serious 
style  of  Wyatt. 

FORGET  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  ye  know  since  whan, 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not !     O  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss, 
Forget  not  yet ! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  303 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved, 
Forget  not  this ! 


THE  ADDRESS  TO  His  L,um 

MY  lute,  awake  !  perform  the  last 
Labor  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 

And  end  that  I  have  now  begun  ; 
For  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 

My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone, 

My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon : 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan  ? 

No,  no,  my  lute !  for  I  have  done. 

The  rock  doth  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  wave  continually, 

As  she  may  suit  and  affection ; 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy; 

Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got, 
Of  simple  hearts,  through  lyove's  shot, 

By  whom  unkind  thou  hast  them  won ; 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot, 

Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Vengeance  may  fall  on  thy  disdain, 
That  rnak'st  but  game  of  earnest  pain : 

Trow  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit  to  cause  thy  lover's  plain, 

Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

May  chance  thee  lie  wither' d  and  old 
The  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold, 

Plaining  in  vain  unto  the  moon : 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told : 

Care  then  who  list !  for  I  have  done. 


304  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent, 

To  cause  thy  lover's  sigh  and  swoon : 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 

And  wish  and  want  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute  !  this  is  the  last 
Labor  that  thou  and  I  shalt  waste, 

And  ended  is  that  I  begun ; 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past : 

My  lute !  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

A  COMPLAINT  BY  NIGHT  OK  THE  LOVER  NOT  BELOVED. 

THE  following  sonnet  by  Surrey  is  interesting  as  one  of  the  earliest 
poems  in  that  form  in  English.  It  is  also  the  most  poetical  of  all 
written  by  these  men. 

ALAS  !  so  all  things  now  do  hold  their  peace ! 

Heaven  and  earth  disturbed  in  no  thing : 
The  beasts,  the  air,  the  birds  their  song  do  cease : 

The  nightes  car  the  stars  about  doth  bring. 
Calm  is  the  sea ;  the  waves  work  less  and  less : 

So  am  not  I,  whom  love,  alas  !  doth  wring, 
Bringing  before  my  face  the  great  increase 

Of  my  desires,  whereat  I  weep  and  sing, 
In  joy  and  woe,  as  in  a  doubtful  ease. 

For  my  sweet  thoughts  sometime  do  pleasure  bring ; 
But  by  and  by,  the  cause  of  my  disease 

Gives  me  a  pang  that  inwardly  doth  sting. 
When  that  I  think  what  grief  it  is  again 
To  live  and  lack  the  thing  should  rid  my  pain. 

LOVE'S  VASSAL. 

THIS  is  Surrey's  translation  of  one  of  Petrarcli's  sonnets. 

LOVE  that  liveth  and  reigneth  in  my  thought, 
That  built  his  seat  within  my  captive  breast ; 

Clad  in  the  arms  wherein  with  me  he  fought ; 
Oft  in  my  face  he  doth  his  banner  rest. 

She,  that  me  taught  to  love  and  suffer  pain, 
My  doubtful  hope,  and  eke  my  hot  desire, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  305 

With  shamefac'd  cloak  to  shadow  and  restrain, 
Her  smiling  grace  converteth  straight  to  ire. 

And  coward  Love  then  to  the  heart  apace 

Taketh  his  flight,  whereas  he  lurks,  and  plains 

His  purpose  lost,  and  dare  not  show  his  face. 
For  my  Lord's  guilt  thus  faultless  bide  I  pains. 

Yet  from  my  Lord  shall  not  my  foot  remove : 

Sweet  is  his  death  that  takes  his  end  by  Love. 

ROGER  ASCHAM. 

ONE  of  the  first  prose  books  of  worth  written  in  English 
was  a  quaint  and  scholarly  treatise  on  archery,  entitled  "Tox- 
ophilus;  the  Schole  or  Partitiones  of  Shooting."  Its  author 
thus  defends  his  use  of  the  vulgar  tongue  instead  of  Latin  : 
"  If  any  man  would  blame  me  for  writing  in  the  English 
tongue,  this  answer  I  may  make  him  ;  that  what  the  best  of 
the  realm  think  it  honest  for  them  to  use,  I,  one  of  the  mean- 
est sort,  ought  not  to  suppose  it  vile  for  me  to  write.  .  .  .  He 
that  would  write  well  in  any  tongue  must  follow  this  counsel 
of  Aristotle,  to  speak  as  the  common  people  do,  to  think  as 
the  wise  men  do.  .  .  .  Many  English  writers  have  not  done 
this,  but  by  using  strange  words  from  foreign  languages  they 
do  make  all  things  dark  and  hard."  As  the  setter  of  the 
fashion  of  using  the  mother  tongue,  simplifying  and  purify- 
ing it,  in  the  realm  of  letters  Ascham's  books  have  a  distinc- 
tion independently  of  their  intrinsic  merit. 

Of  humble  birth,  Roger  Ascham  was  educated  by  his 
father's  employer,  entering  Cambridge  in  1530,  in  his  fifteenth 
year,  taking  his  M.A.  degree  seven  years  later.  He  had  parti- 
cular aptitude  for  Greek  learning  and  was  appointed  Univer- 
sity lecturer.  His  proficiency  in  Latin,  which  he  wrote  with 
elegance  of  style  and  penmanship,  led  to  his  being  employed 
to  write  the  public  correspondence  of  the  university.  Ascham 
was  versatile  and  progressive.  His  "Toxophilus"  is  no  more 
a  dry  treatise  upon  archery  than  "The  Compleat  Angler"  is 
upon  fishing ;  both  works  seek  to  beguile  the  stay-at-home 
scholar  from  his  books  into  the  open  fields,  from  solitary  study 
into  the  health-giving  exercise  of  the  manly  sport  of  the  day, 
when  the  bow  and  arrow  were  still  in  use  as  military  weapons. 

IV— 20 


306  LITERATURE  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 

Ascham  was  tutor  from  1548  until  1550  to  the  Princess,  after- 
wards Queen  Elizabeth.  After  a  tour  abroad,  still  holding 
his  university  offices,  Ascham  was  appointed  Latin  secretary 
to  Queen  Mary,  which  he  retained  under  Elizabeth,  who  con- 
tinued her  studies  under  his  daily  supervision.  At  the  re- 
quest of  the  queen's  advisers  Ascham  wrote  "The  Schole- 
master ;  or  plaine  and  perfite  Way  of  teaching  Children  to 
understande,  write  and  speake  the  Latin  Tong,  but  specially 
purposed  for  the  private  bringing  up  of  Youth  in  Jentlemen 
and  Noblemen's  Houses,  and  commodious  also  for  all  such  as 
have  forgot  the  Latin  Tonge,  and  would,  by  themselves,  with- 
out a  Scholemaster,  in  short  Tyme,  and  with  small  Paines, 
recover  a  sufficient  Habilitie  to  understand,  write  and  speake 
Latin."  This  work  was  written  during  the  last  seven  years 
of  his  life,  which  ended  in  December,  1568  ;  it  was  published 
in  1570,  and  is  remarkable  for  the  soundness  and  ingenuity  of 
the  principles  he  advocated  in  line  with  modern  views.  Be- 
sides these  two  works,  whose  wit,  wisdom  and  easy  English 
diction  make  them  excellent  reading  to  this  day,  Ascham 
published  an  account  of  his  tour  through  Italy  and  Germany. 

FAIR  SHOOTING. 

I  CAN  teach  you  to  shoot  fair,  even  as  Socrates  taught  a 
man  once  to  know  God.  For  when  he  asked  him  what  was 
God?  "Nay,"  saith  he,  "  I  can  tell  you  better  what  God  is 
not,  as  God  is  not  ill,  God  is  unspeakable,  unsearchable,  and  so 
forth.  Even  likewise  can  I  say  of  fair  shooting,  it  hath  not 
this  discommodity  with  it  nor  that  discommodity,  and  at  last 
a  man  may  so  shift  all  the  discommodities  from  shooting  that 
there  shall  be  left  nothing  behind  but  fair  shooting.  And  to 
do  this  the  better  you  must  remember  how  that  I  told  you 
when  I  described  generally  the  whole  nature  of  shooting,  that 
fair  shooting  came  of  these  things  of  standing,  nocking,  draw- 
ing, holding  and  loosing ;  the  which  I  will  go  over  as  shortly 
as  I  can,  describing  the  discommodities  that  men  commonly 
use  in  all  parts  of  their  bodies,  that,  you  if  you  fault  in  any  such, 
may  know  it,  and  go  about  to  amend  it.  Faults  in  archers  do 
exceed  the  number  of  archers,  which  come  with  use  of  shoot- 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  307 

ing  without  teaching.  Use  and  custom  separated  from  know- 
ledge and  learning,  doth  not  only  hurt  shooting,  but  the  most 
weighty  things  in  the  world  beside.  And,  therefore,  I  marvel 
much  at  those  people  which  be  the  maintainers  of  uses 
without  knowledge,  having  no  other  word  in  their  mouth 
but  this,  "use,  use,  custom,  custom."  Such  men,  more 
willful  than  wise,  beside  other  discommodities,  take  all  place 
and  occasion  from  all  amendment.  And  this  I  speak  gene- 
rally of  use  and  custom. 

Two  WINGS  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 

I  HAVE  been  a  looker-on  in  the  cockpit  of  learning  these 
many  years ;  and  one  cock  only  have  I  known,  which,  with 
one  wing,  even  at  this  day,  doth  pass  all  other,  in  mine 
opinion,  that  ever  I  saw  in  England  though  they  had  two 
wings.  Yet  nevertheless,  to  fly  well  with  one  wing,  to  run 
fast  with  one  leg,  are  masteries,  more  to  be  marvelled  at  than 
sure  examples,  safely  to  be  followed.  A  bishop  that  now 
liveth,  a  good  man,  whose  judgment  in  religion  I  better  like 
than  his  opinion  in  perfectness  in  other  learning,  said  once 
unto  me :  "We  have  no  need  now  of  the  Greek  tongue,  when 
all  things  be  translated  into  Latin."  But  the  good  man 
understood  not,  that  even  the  best  translation  is  for  mere 
necessity  but  an  evil  imped  wing  to  fly  withal,  or  a  heavy 
stump  leg  of  wood  to  go  withal.  Such,  the  higher  they  fly, 
the  sooner  they  falter  and  fail ;  the  faster  they  run,  the  ofter 
they  stumble  and  sorer  the  fall.  Such  as  will  needs  so  fly, 
may  fly  at  a  pye,  and  catch  a  daw  ;  and  such  runners  shove 
and  shoulder  to  stand  foremost,  yet  in  the  end  they  come 
behind  others,  and  deserve  but  the  hopshackles,  if  the  masters 
of  the  game  be  right  judgers. 

SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

TRADITION  and  the  evidence  of  his  life  and  pen  unite  in 
applying  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney  the  superlative  praises  poetry 
has  ever  bestowed  on  knightly  heroes.  From  his  birth  in 
1554  he  was  reared  in  the  gentle  life  of  the  cultured  rich,  and 


308  LITERATURE   OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

at  eighteen  began  his  three  years'  round  of  travel  on  the 
Continent  and  visited  the  learned  of  France  and  Italy.  As 
the  nephew  of  Lord  Leicester  he  soon  came  under  the  keen 
eye  of  Elizabeth.  As  if  to  justify  his  Queen's  honest  avowal 
that  she  esteemed  him  "as  one  of  the  jewels  of  my  crown," 
Sir  Philip  delighted  her  court  by  writing  the  masque,  "The 
Lady  of  the  May,"  which  was  played  at  Lord  Leicester's  his- 
toric reception  of  Elizabeth  at  Kenilworth.  Sidney  was  one 
of  the  victorious  knights  in  the  tournament.  In  his  twenty- 
third  year  he  was  made  ambassador,  with  a  gorgeous  retinue, 
to  carry  the  Queen's  congratulations  to  the  new  emperor  of 
Germany,  Rudolph  II.  The  Queen  dissuaded  him  from  be- 
coming a  candidate  for  the  crown  of  Poland.  From  1578  until 
his  marriage  in  1583  he  lived  the  private  life  of  a  country 
gentleman,  with  occasional  visits  to  the  court,  pursuing  his 
literary  work,  which  was  with  him  a  passion.  He  incurred 
the  Queen's  disfavor  by  writing  her  a  letter  of  protest  against 
her  supposed  inclination  to  marry  the  Duke  of  Anjou.  In 
1585  Sidney  went  with  Leicester's  expedition  to  the  Nether- 
lands. Two  horses  were  shot  under  him  at  the  battle  of  Zut- 
phen.  While  mounting  the  third  he  received  a  fatal  shot, 
through  his  characteristically  romantic,  but  foolish,  act  of 
throwing  away  his  leg-armor  because  he  saw  his  commander 
wore  none.  The  tradition  of  his  passing  the  cup  of  water, 
untouched  by  his  own  parched  lips,  to  a  wounded  soldier,  is 
in  perfect  keeping  with  the  former  strictly  authentic  fact. 

That  Sir  Philip  Sidney  should  have  bent  his  romantic 
genius  to  the  versification  of  the  Psalms  is  less  singular  than 
the  fact  that  none  of  his  own  writings  were  published  during 
his  lifetime.  And  there  is  this  to  be  remembered  of  one  of 
those  modest  writings,  it  was  the  first  piece  of  purely  literary 
criticism  and  the  first  "Defence  of  Poetrie"  in  the  language. 
Chaucer  and  Lydgate  had  been  put  in  type  by  Caxton,  and 
the  old  ballads  had  some  vogue,  though  the  fourteenth  century 
English  was  antiquated.  The  new  style  ushered  in  by  Wyatt 
and  Surrey  had  not  yet  taken  root,  and  the  day  of  Spenser  and 
Shakespeare  was  to  come.  During  his  retirement  in  his  Kent- 
ish home  Sidney  wrote  a  long  artificial  romance  after  the  Ital- 
ian fashion,  "The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia."  Of  its 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  309 

florid  class,  and  considering  the  taste  of  the  time,  this  richly 
and  wearisomely  elaborated  pastoral  story  merited  its  popu- 
larity during  a  hundred  years.  Some  charming  lyrics  are 
sprinkled  among  the  impossible  adventures,  but  Sidney's 
poetic  gift  must  be  judged  by  his  string  of  over  a  century  of 
sonnets,  making  literary  love  to  his  Penelope,  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Essex,  who  had  been  his  sweetheart  in  his  boyhood. 
These  sonnets,  entitled  "Astrophel  and  Stella,"  are  the  first 
collected  series  of  poems  in  this  Italian  form,  and  exhibit 
great  poetic  feeling  despite  their  inevitable  artificiality.  The 
"Defence,"  or,  as  Sidney  first  called  it,  "Apologie  for  Poe- 
trie ' '  at  once  became  and  will  long  remain  a  classic  and  a 
treasury  of  strong  Elizabethan  English,  comparable  in  dignity 
of  style  and  theme  with  Milton's  "Areopagitica." 

A  STAG  HUNT. 

(From  the  "Arcadia.") 

THEY  came  to  the  side  of  the  wood,  where  the  hounds 
were  in  couples,  staying  their  coming,  but  with  a  whining 
accent  craving  liberty  ;  many  of  them  in  color  and  marks  so 
resembling,  that  it  showed  they  were  of  one  kind.  The 
huntsmen  handsomely  attired  in  their  green  liveries,  as 
though  they  were  children  of  summer,  with  staves  in  their 
hands  to  beat  the  guiltless  earth,  when  the  hounds  were  at  a 
fault ;  and  with  horns  about  their  necks,  to  sound  an  alarm 
upon  a  silly  fugitive :  the  hounds  were  straight  uncoupled, 
and  ere  long  the  stag  thought  it  better  to  trust  to  the  nimble- 
ness  of  his  feet  than  to  the  slender  fortification  of  his  lodg- 
ing ;  but  even  his  feet  betrayed  him  ;  for,  howsoever  they 
went,  they  themselves  uttered  themselves  to  the  scent  of 
their  enemies,  who,  one  taking  it  of  another,  and  sometimes 
believing  the  wind's  advertisements,  sometimes  the  view  of 
— their  faithful  counsellors — the  huntsmen,  with  open  mouths, 
then  denounced  war,  when  the  war  was  already  begun. 
Their  cry  being  composed  of  so  well-sorted  mouths  that  any 
man  would  perceive  therein  some  kind  of  proportion,  but 
the  skillful  woodmen  did  find  a  music.  Then  delight  and 
variety  of  opinion  drew  the  horsemen  sundry  ways,  yet 


310  LITERATURE;  OP  AW,  NATIONS. 

cheering  their  hounds  with  voice  and  horn,  kept  still  as  it 
were  together.  The  wood  seemed  to  conspire  with  them 
against  his  own  citizens,  dispersing  their  noise  through  all  his 
quarters ;  and  even  the  nymph  Echo  left  to  bewail  the  loss 
of  Narcissus,  and  became  a  hunter.  But  the  stag  was  in  the 
end  so  hotly  pursued,  that,  leaving  his  flight,  he  was  driven 
to  make  courage  of  despair ;  and  so  turning  his  head,  made 
the  hounds,  with  change  of  speech,  to  testify  that  he  was  at 
a  bay  :  as  if  from  hot  pursuit  of  their  enemy,  they  were  sud- 
denly come  to  a  parley. 

AN  ARCADIAN  LOVE  LETTER. 

MOST  blessed  paper,  which  shall  kiss  that  hand  whereto  all 
blessedness  is  in  nature  a  servant,  do  not  disdain  to  carry 
with  thee  the  woful  words  of  a  miser  [wretch]  now  despairing; 
neither  be  afraid  to  appear  before  her  bearing  the  base  title 
of  the  sender,  for  no  sooner  shall  that  divine  hand  touch  thee 
but  that  thy  baseness  shall  be  turned  to  most  high  preferment. 
Therefore  mourn  boldly,  my  ink,  for  while  she  looks  upon 
you  your  blackness  will  shine ;  cry  out  boldly,  my  lamenta- 
tion, for  while  she  reads  you  your  cries  will  be  music.  Say, 
then,  O  happy  messenger  of  a  most  unhappy  message,  that 
the  too  soon  born  and  too  late  dying  creature,  which  dares 
not  speak — no,  not  look — no,  not  scarcely  think,  as  from  his 
miserable  self,  unto  her  heavenly  highness  only  presumes  to 
desire  thee,  in  the  times  that  her  eyes  and  voice  do  exalt  thee, 
to  say,  and  in  this  manner  to  say,  not  from  him — oh,  no,  that 
were  not  fit — but  of  him,  thus  much  unto  her  sacred  judg- 
ment :  O  you,  the  only  honor  to  women,  to  men  the  only  ad- 
miration ;  you  that,  being  armed  by  love,  defy  him  that  armed 
you,  in  this  high  estate  wherein  you  have  placed  me,  yet  let 
me  remember  him  to  whom  I  am  bound  for  bringing  me  to 
your  presence :  and  let  me  remember  him  who,  since  he  is 
yours,  how  mean  soever  he  be,  it  is  reason  you  have  an  ac- 
count of  him.  The  wretch — yet  your  wretch — though  with 
languishing  steps,  runs  fast  to  his  grave  :  and  will  you  suffer 
a  temple — how  poorly  built  soever,  but  yet  a  temple  of  your 
deity — to  be  razed  ?  But  he  dieth,  it  is  most  true,  he  dieth  ; 
and  he  in  whom  you  live  to  obey  you,  dieth.  Whereof  though 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  311 

he  plain,  lie  doth  not  complain ;  for  it  is  a  harm,  but  no 
wrong,  which  he  hath  received.  He  dies  because,  in  woful 
language,  all  his  senses  tell  him  that  such  is  your  pleasure  ; 
for  since  you  will  not  that  he  live,  alas  !  alas  !  what  followeth 
— what  followeth  of  the  most  ruined  Dorus  but  his  end  ?  End 
then,  evil-destined  Dorus,  end ;  and  end,  thou  woful  letter, 
end ;  for  it  sufficeth  her  wisdom  to  know  that  her  heavenly 
will  shall  be  accomplished. 

STELLA. 

STELLA,  the  only  planet  of  my  light, 
Light  of  my  life,  and  life  of  my  desire, 
Chief  good  whereto  my  hope  doth  only  aspire, 

World  of  my  wealth,  and  heav'n  of  my  delight ; 

Why  dost  thou  spend  the  treasures  of  thy  sprite, 
With  voice  more  fit  to  wed  Amphion's  lyre, 
Seeking  to  quench  in  me  the  noble  fire 

Fed  by  thy  worth,  and  kindled  by  thy  sight  ? 

And  all  in  vain  :  for  while  thy  breath  most  sweet 
With  choicest  words,  thy  words  with  reasons  rare, 

Thy  reasons  firmly  set  on  Virtue's  feet, 
L/abor  to  kill  in  me  this  killing  care : 

O  think  I  then,  what  paradise  of  joy 

It  is  so  fair  a  virtue  to  enjoy  ! 

THE  STOLEN  Kiss. 

LOVE,  still  a  boy,  and  oft  a  wanton  is, 

Schooled  only  by  his  mother's  tender  eye ; 
What  wonder  then  if  he  his  lesson  miss, 

When  for  so  soft  a  rod  dear  play  he  try  ? 
And  yet  my  Star,  because  a  sugared  kiss 

In  sport  I  sucked  while  she  asleep  did  lie, 
Doth  lower,  nay  chide,  nay  threat  for  only  this. 

Sweet,  it  was  saucy  Love,  not  humble  I. 
But  no  'scuse  serves ;  she  makes  her  wrath  appear 
In  beauty's  throne :  see  now,  who  dares  come  near 

Those  scarlet  judges,  threat'ning  bloody  pain. 
O  heav'nly  fool,  thy  most  kiss- worthy  face 
Anger  invests  with  such  a  lovely  grace, 

That  Anger's  self  I  needs  must  kiss  again. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 

ENGLAND'S  golden  age  of  poetry  began  with  Spenser,  first 
and  fairest  of  Elizabeth's  choir  of  true  singers,  then  and  still 
honored  as  "the  poets'  poet,"  and  rightly  so,  as  few  but  poets 
can  claim  much  knowledge  of  his  work.  It  ranks  above  the 
heights  scaled  by  the  every-day  reader  for  pleasure.  His 
master-work  lacks  popular  attractiveness  in  being  an  allegory 
and  not  a  dramatic  story.  Its  music  is  the  subtle  ^Eolian 
harmony  of  sounds  that  most  delight  the  most  delicate  ear. 
And  the  unfamiliar  look  of  that  somewhat  grotesque  English, 
ruffled  with  archaisms  and  starched  with  stiff  Italian  forms, 
counts  substantially  among  the  apologies  for  modern  readers 
whose  taste  is  moulded  by  the  fashion  of  their  own  century. 

Yet  the  literature  of  Elizabeth's  day,  which  still  glorifies 
that  of  the  English  language,  is  not  to  be  properly  understood 
without  a  passing  study  of  Spenser,  who  was  a  very  grand 
poet  and  more  besides.  Though  eager  to  link  his  branch  of 
the  Spenser  clan  with  the  ennobled  Spencers,  it  is  evident  that 
the  poet,  who  was  born  in  1552,  was  of  humble  Lancashire 
origin.  He  got  through  Cambridge  by  a  sizarship.  Thence 
north  as  a  tutor  on  small  pay,  which  possibly  accounts  for  his 
rejection  by  the  "faithless  Rosalind,  and  voyd  of  grace," 
over  whom  he  wasted  many  inky  tears  and  prentice  efforts  in 
his  "Shepherd's  Calendar,"  twelve  pastoral  poems,  in  which 
Colin  Clout  imitates  the  eclogues  of  Theocritus  and  Virgil. 
This  appeared  in  1579.  A  college  friend,  Gabriel  Harvey, 
brought  Spenser  into  friendly  relations  with  Lord  Leicester. 
The  result  was  the  young  poet's  appointment  as  secretary  to 
the  lord-deputy  of  Ireland  in  1580. 
312 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  313 

England  was  in  a  state  of  turmoil  at  home  and  abroad ; 
there  had  been  a  rebellion,  known  as  Desmond's,  in  Ireland, 
which  had  tempted  the  young  bloods  of  the  aristocracy  to 
league  themselves  together  for  a  raid  of  suppression,  to  be 
rewarded  with  the  spoils  of  war.  Gentle  spirit  though  the 
poet  had,  his  other  self  shared  the  romantic  love  for  adventure 
and  for  sordid  gain,  so  characteristic  of  the  time.  Spenser 
was  only  eight-and-twenty  ;  he  had  lived  in  the  house  of  the 
knightly  Philip  Sidney,  where  his  "Calendar"  had  been 
written,  and  breathed  the  same  bracing  air  as  Walter  Raleigh, 
his  after  associate.  So  he  served  under  Lord-Deputy  Grey, 
bore  his  part  in  the  terrible  suppression  of  the  uprising,  and 
shared  in  the  division  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond's  forfeited 
estates.  In  all  Spenser  spent  ten  years  in  Ireland  in  various 
government  offices,  the  last  four  being  the  important  clerk- 
ship of  the  Council  of  Munster.  Three  thousand  acres  of 
land,  and  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Desmonds,  Kilcolman  Castle, 
in  County  Cork,  had  been  granted  to  Spenser  in  the  spoli- 
ation of  Munster.  In  1596  he  had  written,  and  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  her  ministers  had  studied,  a  matter-of-fact 
state-paper  which  the  poet,  writing  as  a  shrewd  man  of  affairs, 
had  entitled,  "View  of  the  Present  State  of  Affairs  in  Ire- 
land." It  is  thrown  into  the  fanciful  form  of  a  dialogue 
between  a  typical  advocate  of  sound  doctrine  and  another 
who  pleads  for  peace.  Spenser  gravely  approves  the  harsh 
policy  of  Lord  Grey  and  other  "very  wise  governors  and 
counsellors,"  which  offered  to  the  Irish  the  alternative  of 
submission  or  extermination.  But  Lord  Grey's  plan  was 
dropped  after  two  years  of  bloodshed,  and  Spenser's  "View" 
was  not  printed  until  1633. 

The  first  instalment  of  the  "Faerie  Queene"  appeared  in 
1590  as  a  quarto  volume  consisting  of  three  "books,"  with 
the  announcement  that  it  had  been  entered  at  Stationers' 
Hall,  and  was  "Aucthoryzed  under  thandes  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  and  bothe  the  wardens. ' '  The  whole 
poem  was  to  be  "disposed  into  twelve  Books,  fashioning 
XII.  Morall  Vertues."  How  Spenser  had  managed  to  build 
up  this  monument  of  faery  verse,  instinct  with  serenest 
beauty  of  thought  and  form,  amid  the  turbulent  scenes  of 


314  LITERATURE   OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

his  life  in  Ireland,  is  a  mystery  of  the  craft.  He  went  to 
L/oudon  to  bask  in  the  triumph  awaiting  him.  Raleigh  pre- 
sented him  to  Elizabeth,  whs  duly  did  homage  to  his  genius. 
He  stayed  there  a  year,  disappointed  if  he  had  reckoned  on 
substantial  court  favors,  for  except  the  small  pension  of  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  his  royal  patron  did  nothing  for  him.  On  his 
return  to  Ireland  two  other  books  by  him  were  published,  the 
"Daphnaida,' '  an  elegy  in  the  pastoral  style,  and  "Complaints 
and  Meditations  of  the  World's  Vanity,"  a  collection  of  mis- 
cellaneous and  mostly  early  verse.  His  friend  Raleigh's 
doleful  experience  of  prison  about  that  time  helped  both  of 
them  to  bewail  in  bitter  earnest  the  delusive  charms  that  glit- 
ter from  the  distance  in  the  patronage  of  courts.  Spenser 
returned  to  London  the  year  after  his  marriage,  in  1594,  and 
published  the  "Amoretti,"  sonnets  of  love,  and  his  "Epi- 
thalamion,"  best  of  his  minor  poems.  Later  pieces  disclosed 
the  growing  disappointments  that  were  clouding  years  which 
should  have  been  his  happiest.  Three  more  books  of  the 
"Faerie  Queene"  came  out  in  1596,  and,  among  a  few  other 
pieces,  the  famous  "Astrophel,"  his  pastoral  elegy,  intro- 
ducing various  laments  by  other  writers  for  the  death  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney.  It  is  said,  but  not  substantiated,  that  Spenser 
had  written  more  books  of  his  great  poem,  which  perished  at 
sea  or  by  fire.  In  1598  he  was  made  sheriff  of  Cork.  Within 
a  few  weeks  Tyrone's  rebellion  broke  out,  his  Kilcolman 
house  was  fired,  the  tradition  being  that  his  fifth  child  was 
burnt  to  death.  The  poet  escaped  to  England  bearing  des- 
patches. His  last  writing  was  a  paper  urging  the  old  resort 
to  brute  force  to  "pacify"  the  Irish.  Broken  in  fortune  and 
spirit,  probably  in  heart,  too,  he  died  on  January  16, 
He  was  buried  near  Chaucer  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

ALCYON'S  LAMENT  FOR  DAPHNE. 

(From  the  "Daphnaida.") 

"WHILOM  I  used,  as  thou  right  well  dost  kuow, 

My  little  flock  on  western  downs  to  keep, 
Not  far  from  whence  Sabrina's  stream  doth  flow, 

And  flowery  banks  with  silver  liquor  steep ; 
Nought  cared  I  then  for  worldly  change  or  chance, 


ENGUSH   LITERATURE.  315 

For  all  my  joy  was  on  my  gentle  sheep, 
And  to  my  pipe  to  carol  and  to  dance. 

"It  there  befell,  as  I  the  fields  did  range 

Fearless  and  free,  a  fair  young  lioness, 
White  as  the  native  Rose  before  the  change 

Which  Venus'  blood  did  in  her  leaves  impress, 
I  spied  playing  on  the  grassy  plain 

Her  youthful  sports  and  kindly  wantonness, 
That  did  all  other  beasts  in  beauty  stain. 

' '  Much  was  I  moved  at  so  goodly  sight, 

Whose  like  before  mine  eye  had  seldom  seen, 

And  'gan  to  cast  how  I  her  compass  might, 
And  bring  to  hand  that  yet  had  never  been ; 

So  well  I  wrought  with  mildness  and  with  pain, 
That  I  her  caught  disporting  on  the  green, 

And  brought  away  fast  bound  with  silver  chain. 

"And  afterwards  I  handled  her  so  fair, 

That  though  by  kind  she  stout  and  savage  were, 

For  being  born  an  ancient  Lion's  heir 
And  of  the  race  that  all  wild  beasts  do  fear, 

Yet  I  her  framed,  and  won  so  to  my  bent, 
That  she  became  so  meek  and  mild  of  cheer, 

As  the  least  lamb  in  all  my  flock  that  went : 

' '  For  she  in  field,  wherever  I  did  wend, 

Would  wend  with  me,  and  wait  by  me  all  day  ; 

And  all  the  night  that  I  in  watch  did  spend, 
If  cause  required,  or  else  in  sleep,  if  nay, 

She  would  all  night  by  me  or  watch  or  sleep ; 
And  evermore  when  I  did  sleep  or  play, 

She  of  my  flock  would  take  full  wary  keep. 

"Safe  then,  and  safest  were  my  silly  sheep, 

Nor  feared  the  wolf,  nor  feared  the  wildest  beast, 

All  were  I  drowned  in  careless  quiet  deep ; 
My  lovely  lioness  without  behest 

So  careful  was  for  them,  and  for  my  good, 
That  when  I  waked,  neither  most  nor  least 

I  found  miscarried  or  in  plain  or  wood. 


316  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

"Oft  did  the  shepherds,  which  my  hap  did  hear, 
And  oft  their  lasses,  which  my  luck  envied, 

Daily  resort  to  me  from  far  and  near, 
To  see  my  Lioness,  whose  praises  wide 

Were  spread  abroad ;  and  when  her  worthiness 
Much  greater  than  the  rude  report  they  tried, 

They  her  did  praise,  and  my  good  fortune  bless. 

"Long  thus  I  joyed  in  my  happiness, 

And  well  did  hope  my  joy  would  have  no  end ; 

But  dhyfond  man  !  that  in  world's  fickleness         [foolish 
Reposedst  hope,  or  weenedst  thy  friend 

That  glories  most  in  mortal  miseries, 
And  daily  doth  her  changeful  counsels  bend 

To  make  new  matter  fit  for  tragedies. 

"For  whilst  I  was  thus  without  dread  or  doubt, 
A  cruel  satyr  with  his  murderous  dart, 

Greedy  of  mischief,  ranging  all  about, 
Gave  her  the  fatal  wound  of  deadly  smart, 

And  reft  from  me  my  sweet  companion, 

And  reft  from  me  my  love,  my  life,  my  heart  ; 

My  Lioness,  ah,  woe  is  me  !  is  gone  ! 

"  Out  of  the  world  thus  was  she  reft  away, 
Out  of  the  world,  unworthy  such  a  spoil, 

And  borne  to  heaven,  for  heaven  a  fitter  prey ; 
Much  fitter  than  the  Lion,  which  with  toil 

Alcides  slew,  and  fixed  in  firmament ; 

Her  now  I  seek  throughout  this  earthly  soil, 

And  seeking  miss,  and  missing  do  lament. ' ' 

Therewith  he  'gan  afresh  to  wail  and  weep, 

That  I  for  pity  of  his  heavy  plight 
Could  not  abstain  mine  eyes  with  tears  to  steep ; 

But,  when  I  saw  the  anguish  of  his  spright 
Some  deal  allayed,  I  him  bespake  again : 

"Certes,  Alcyon,  painful  is  thy  plight, 
That  it  in  me  breeds  almost  equal  pain. 

"Yet  doth  not  my  dull  wit  well  understand 

The  riddle  of  thy  loved  Lioness ; 
For  rare  it  seems  in  reason  to  be  scanned, 

That  man,  who  doth  the  whole  world's  rule  possess, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  317 

Should  to  a  beast  his  noble  heart  embase, 

And  be  the  vassal  of  his  vassaless  ; 
Therefore  more  plain  aread  this  doubtful  case." 

Then  sighing  sore, '"Daphne  thou  know'st,"  quoth  he, 
"She  now  is  dead : "  nor  more  endured  to  say, 

But  fell  to  ground  for  great  extremity  ; 
That  I,  beholding  it,  with  deep  dismay 

Was  much  appalled,  and,  lightly  him  uprearing, 
Revoked  life,  that  would  have  fled  away, 

All  were  myself,  through  grief,  in  deadly  drearing. 

THE  EPITHALAMION. 

WAK.E  now,  my  love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time : 

The  rosy  morn  long  since  left  Tithone's  bed, 

All  ready  to  her  silver  coach  to  climb  ; 

And  Phoebus  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 

Hark  !  how  the  cheerful  birds  do  chant  their  lays 

And  carol  of  love's  praise. 

The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft ; 

The  thrush  replies ;  the  mavis  descant  plays ; 

The  ouzel  shrills  ;  the  ruddock  warbles  soft ; 

So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 

To  this  day's  merriment. 

Ah  !  my  dear  love,  why  do  ye  sleep  thus  long, 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 

To  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  make  [mate], 

And  hearken  to  the  bird's  love-learned  song, 

The  dewy  leaves  among ! 

For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreams, 
And  her  fair  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  show  their  goodly  beams 
More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rear. 
Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight, 
Help  quickly  her  to  dight : 
But  first  come,  ye  fair  Hours,  which  were  begot 
In  Jove's  sweet  paradise  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot, 


31 8  UTERATURB  OF  AI.I,  NATIONS. 

And  all  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair 

Do  make  and  still  repair : 

And  ye  three  handmaids  of  the  Cyprian  Queen, 

The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauty's  pride, 

Help  to  adorn  my  beaut  ifullest  bride : 

And  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  between 

Some  graces  to  be  seen ; 

And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing, 

The  whiles  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come ; 

Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  await ; 

And  ye  fresh  boys  that  tend  upon  her  groom, 

Prepare  yourselves,  for  he  is  coming  straight. 

Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  array, 

Fit  for  so  joyful  day : 

The  joy  fullest  day  that  ever  sun  did  see. 

Fair  sun,  show  forth  thy  favorable  ray, 

And  let  thy  life-full  heat  not  fervent  be, 

For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

O  fairest  Phoebus,  father  of  the  Muse, 

If  ever  I  did  honor  thee  aright, 

Or  sing  the  thing  that  mote  thy  mind  delight,        \might 

Do  not  thy  servant's  simple  boon  refuse ; 

But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  mine — 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  I  thy  sovereign  praises  loud  will  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Hark !  how  the  minstrels  'gin  to  shrill  aloud, 

Their  merry  music  that  resounds  from  far, 

The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  crowd,        \_fiddle 

That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 

But  most  of  all  the  damsels  do  delight 

When  they  their  timbrels  smite, 

And  thereunto  do  dance  and  carol  sweet, 

That  all  the  senses  they  do  ravish  quite ; 

The  whiles  the  boys  ran  up  and  down  the  street, 

Crying  aloud  with  strong  confused  noise, 

As  if  it  were  one  voice. 

"  Hymen,  lo  Hymen,  Hymen,"  they  do  shout; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  319 

That  even  to  the  heavens  their  shouting  shrill 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  doth  fill ; 

To  which  the  people  standing  all  about, 

As  in  approvance  do  thereto  applaud, 

And  loud  advance  her  laud ; 

And  evermore  they  "  Hymen,  Hymen  "  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

I,o,  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 

Like  Phrebe  from  her  chamber  of  the  east 

Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best ; 

So  well  it  her  beseems  that  ye  would  ween 

Some  angel  she  had  been ; 

Her  long,  loose  yellow  locks  like  golden  wire 

Sprinkled  with  pearl,  and  pearling  flowers  at  ween, 

Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 

And  being  crowned  with  a  garland  green, 

Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 

Her  modest  eyes  abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are ; 

Nor  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 

So  far  from  being  proud. 

Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did  ye  see 

So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  before  ? 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 

Adorned  with  beauty's  grace  and  virtue's  store  ? 

Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires  shining  bright, 

Her  forehead  ivory  white, 

Her  cheeks  like  apples  which  the  sun  hath  rudded, 

Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men  to  bite, 

Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  uncrudded, 

Her  paps  like  lilies  budded, 

Her  snowy  neck  like  to  a  marble  tower ; 

And  all  her  body  like  a  palace  fair, 

Ascending  up,  with  many  a  stately  stair, 

To  honor's  seat  and  chastity's  sweet  bower. 


320  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze, 

Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your  echo  ring  ? 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 

The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright, 

Garnished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree, 

Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that  sight, 

And  stand  astonished  like  to  those  which  read 

Medusa's  mazeful  head. 

There  dwells  sweet  love,  and  constant  chastity, 

Unspotted  faith,  and  comely  womanhood, 

Regard  of  honor,  and  mild  modesty ; 

There  virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne, 

And  giveth  laws  alone, 

The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey, 

And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will ; 

Nor  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 

Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 

Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures, 

And  unrevealed  pleasures, 

Then  would  ye  wonder  and  her  praises  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love, 
Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in, 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove, 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  trim, 
For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  due, 
That  cometh  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps,  and  humble  reverence, 
She  cometh  in,  before  the  Almighty's  view; 
Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learn  obedience, 
When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 
To  humble  your  proud  faces  : 
Bring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she  may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 
The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make  ; 
And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes ; 
The  whiles,  with  hollow  throats, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  721 

The  choristers  the  joyous  anthem  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 

Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 

And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks, 

And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain 

Ivike  crimson  dyed  in  grain, 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Alleluia  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Now  all  is  done  :  bring  home  the  bride  again, 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory : 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain, 

With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  more  joyful  day  than  this, 

Whom  heaven  would  heap  with  bliss ; 

Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  livelong  day, — 

This  day  forever  to  me  holy  is. 

Pour  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay, 

Pour  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly-full, 

Pour  out  to  all  that  wull, 

And  sprinkle  all  the  posts  and  walls  with  wine, 

That  they  may  sweat,  and  drunken  be  withal. 

Crown  ye  god  Bacchus  with  a  coronal, 

And  Hymen  also  crown  with  wreaths  of  vine ; 

And  let  the  Graces  dance  unto  the  rest, 

For  they  can  do  it  best ; 

The  whiles  the  maidens  do  their  carol  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

IV — 2f 


322  LITERATURE  OP  AU<  NATIONS. 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE. 

THE  "Faerie  Queene"  transcends  all  other  allegories  in 
two  respects — it  was,  and  still  remains,  the  first  pure  English 
poem,  since  Chaucer's  day,  of  its  range  and  beauty :  and  it 
marks  the  new  departure  from  medisevalism  through  the 
renaissance  to  the  strong  intellectualism  which  took  its 
second  impetus  from  the  Reformation,  and  wrought  our  later 
civil  and  religious  liberties.  In  this  poem  Spenser  bridges 
the  gap  between  the  old  mythology  and  poetic  romanticism 
of  the  past,  and  the  prophetic  anticipation  of  great  realities  to 
come  from  the  quickening  of  mental  and  material  activities 
already  at  work.  His  Faerie,  i.  e. ,  spiritual,  Queen  is  Gloriana, 
the  Glory  of  God,  yet  also  meaning  Elizabeth  idealized.  Una 
is  religious  Truth  ;  the  Red  Cross  Knight  is  Holiness,  or  St. 
George,  ever  doing  battle  for  the  true  Faith  against  the 
Dragon  of  Error ;  and  Archimago,  the  Devil.  Among  the 
enemies  of  Una  is  the  witch  Duessa,  who  stands  for  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  so  through  the  play  of  his  puppets 
Spenser  vents  his  bitter  hostility  to  the  cause  represented  by 
Mary  Stuart,  whose  speedy  execution  he  pleads  for.  The  first 
Book  thus  allegorizes  Religion,  tightly  robed  in  the  bigotries 
of  the  time.  The  second,  third  and  fourth  treat  of  Love  in 
all  its  manifestations,  with  Sir  Guyon  as  the  personification 
of  Temperance,  and  Britomart,  the  most  charming  heroine  of 
the  whole  poem,  representing  Chastity.  Book  V.  is  devoted 
to  Justice,  and  in  the  sixth  and  seventh,  the  last  we  possess 
of  the  twelve  contemplated  by  the  poet,  the  minor  virtues, 
Courtesy  and  Constancy,  are  shown  in  their  relations  with 
Love  and  Justice.  In  Prince  Arthur  is  typified  Magnificence, 
an  idealized  conception  of  the  secondary  Glory  of  God.  Leav- 
ing the  ethical  significance  of  the  poem,  though  Spenser  puts 
it  well  in  the  fore- front  of  his  work,  the  "Faerie  Queene" 
can  be  read  at  random  for  its  poetical  beauties  without  loss, 
probably  with  more  pleasure  than  as  a  whole.  The  chivalric 
romance  was  the  favorite  reading  of  the  people.  The  new 
Italian  and  French  forms  of  verse  were  familiar  to  Spenser — 
but  he  added  to  the  eight  rhymed  lines  of  Ariosto's  stanza 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  323 

an  Alexandrine  as  the  ninth.  This  new  form  bears  the  name 
of  the  Spenserian  stanza.  Thus  the  poet  established  not 
simply  a  style,  but  a  noble  order  of  imaginative  verse  which 
has  been  the  delight  and  the  envy  of  poets  ever  since. 

THE  RED  CROSS  KNIGHT  AND  UNA. 

A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine,      \riding 
Yclad  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde,  {clad 

Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  retnaine, 
The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde ; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield. 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield : 
Full  jolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt.    \_jousts 

And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  Crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  I^ord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador'd. 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 
Right  faithfull  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word, 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad  ; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad.  \_feared 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond, 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 
(That  greatest  Glorious  Queene  of  Faery  lond) 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to  have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did  crave : 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  hart  did  earne  [yearn 

To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne, 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 

A  lovely  L,adie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  Asse  more  white  then  snow. 
Yet  she  much  whiter  ;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low,  [veil 

And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw : 


324  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

As  one  that  iiily  mourned,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow  ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had ; 
And  by  her,  in  a  line,  a  milkewhite  lambe  she  lad. 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  larnbe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore  ; 
And  by  descent  from  Royall  lynage  came  [lineage 

Of  ancient  Kinges  and  Queenes,  that  had  of  yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  East  to  Westerne  shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held ; 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld  ; 
Whom  to  avenge  she  had  this  Knight  from  far  compeld. 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag, 
That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 
Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they  past, 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast, 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  Lemans  lap  so  fast, 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain  ; 
And  this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves  were  fain. 

Bnforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand  ; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride,  \clad 

Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide, 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr  : 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleies  wide, 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr. 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seems,  so  in  they  entred  are. 


NOTE. — For  a  specimen  of  Spenser's  translation  from  the  French 
of  loachim  du  Bellay's  "Visions,"  see  pp.  253-255. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  325 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

CHIEF  among  the  romantic  figures  whose  high  gifts  and 
large  activities  made  Elizabeth's  reign  illustrious,  stands 
the  versatile  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  most  envied,  most  to  be 
pitied.  His  literary  genius  was  subordinated  to  the  necessi- 
ties of  other  ambitions  or  he  would  have  run  his  more  famous 
contemporaries  hard  in  the  race  for  popularity.  He  cannot 
be  denied  a  place  among  the  great  masters  of  nervous  force 
and  style  in  both  prose  and  verse. 

Born  in  1552,  he  left  Oxford  in  his  seventeenth  year 
for  seven  years  of  adventurous  service  with  the  Huguenot 
army  in  France.  His  next  step  was  to  join  his  half-brother, 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  in  a  voyage  to  America,  and  on  this 
being  prevented  by  the  Council,  Raleigh  became  captain  of 
a  small  force  sent  to  put  down  the  insurrection  in  Ireland. 
Both  Spenser  and  Raleigh  entered  on  this  task  of  suppression 
with  the  fiercest  brutality  and  easy  consciences.  The  massacre 
of  the  Catholic  garrison  won  them  their  sovereign's  favor. 
Monopolies  were  conferred  upon  the  dashing  soldier-courtier, 
followed  later  by  high  offices  of  emolument.  His  restless 
ambition  craved  for  the  manlier  honors  of  fame  and  power 
won  by  bold  achievements,  and  this  caused  him,  in  his  thirty- 
second  year,  to  risk  his  modest  fortune  in  backing  Sir 
Humphrey  Gilbert's  expedition  to  colonize  North  America. 
It  was  a  glorious  failure,  ennobled  by  Gilbert's  last  words  as 
the  storm  sank  his  little  ship,  "  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea 
as  by  land."  In  the  next  year  Raleigh  despatched  another 
fleet  with  pioneer  settlers  for  the  new  land  he  named  in  honor 
of  his  queen,  Virginia,  and  though  this  and  the  expeditions 
.supplementary  also  failed,  he  is  remembered  as  the  first  Eng- 
lishman who  planted  the  seed  from  which  grew  the  great  colo- 
nies of  after  years.  When,  in  1 584,  Raleigh  received  his  grant 
of  land  in  Ireland  in  reward  for  his  extermination  services, 
he  tried  to  make  the  suppression  of  the  Irish  complete  by 
replacing  them  with  English  settlers.  Unscrupulous  as  he 
was  in  attaining  his  ends  he  was  sagacious  in  helping  the 
colonists  to  acquire  real  interest  in  their  new  life,  and  with 


326  LITERATURE  OP  ALI,  NATIONS. 

this  end  he  introduced  the  potato  and  tobacco,  which  have 
outlasted  his  colony  schemes. 

After  many  furious  wranglings,  Raleigh,  who  had  made 
more  enemies  than  friends,  gradually  lost  his  hold  on  Eliza- 
beth's goodwill.  He  retired  to  Ireland  for  a  while  under  this 
cloud,  returning  to  London  with  Spenser  in  1590,  whom  he 
presented  to  the  queen.  Although  Raleigh  had  spent  fortunes 
in  attempting  the  expansion  of  the  realm  and  had  actively 
shared  in  expeditions  against  Spain,  including  the  defeat  of 
the  Armada,  Elizabeth  cast  her  late  favorite  into  the  Tower, 
for  his  intrigue  with  the  maid  of  honor,  who  afterwards 
became  his  wife.  This  was  the  beginning  of  his  greater 
adversity.  His  release  was  granted  because  Raleigh  alone 
could  effect  a  satisfactory  distribution  of  the  spoils  gathered 
by  the  last  expedition  he  had  sent  out.  On  regaining  his 
freedom,  stung  by  his  hard  unmerited  fate,  Raleigh  deter- 
mined to  rise  to  unassailable  eminence  by  a  brilliant  stroke. 
He  would  be  the  discoverer  of  the  fabled  El  Dorado,  doing 
what  others  only  dreamed  of,  and  in  1595,  after  receiving  the 
reports  of  his  pioneers,  he  set  out  with  five  ships  for  the 
Orinoco,  explored  it  sufficiently  to  bring  back  glowing  stories 
gathered  from  the  Indians,  fortified  with  specimens  of  gold 
ore.  He  wrote  his  account  of  the  voyage,  "The  Discoverie 
of  the  Empyre  of  Guiana,  with  a  Relation  of  the  Citie  of 
Manoa  (which  the  Spanyards  call  El  Dorado),  and  of  the 
Provinces  of  Emeria,"  etc.  Next  year,  not  being  able  to  go 
himself,  Raleigh  sent  Capt.  Keymis  to  make  further  researches, 
while  he  led  the  attack  of  the  British  fleet  under  I/ords 
Howard  and  Essex  against  the  Spanish  fleet,  being  wounded 
in  the  action  that  ended  with  the  capture  of  Cadiz  and  the 
establishing  of  English  supremacy  on  the  sea.  The  death 
of  Elizabeth  brought  Raleigh  into  conflict  with  her  suc- 
cesssor,  James  I.,  upon  the  policy  of  crushing  Spain.  The 
king's  reluctance  to  pursue  this  led  to  strong  words  from 
Raleigh,  which  being  construed  as  treasonable,  caused  his 
arrest.  After  an  attempt  at  suicide  he  was  tried  and  con- 
demned to  death  in  1603.  At  the  last  moment  this  was  com- 
muted to  life  imprisonment.  In  this  dungeon,  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  Tower,  he  wrote  his  incomplete  "  History  of  the 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  327 

World,"  political  tracts,  and  poems  embittered  with  resent- 
ment at  the  strokes  of  adverse  fate.  His  wealth  had  been 
confiscated,  and  the  prospect,  in  his  forty-second  year,  of 
spending  the  rest  of  his  life  in  prison,  must  have  brought  so 
vigorous  a  character  near  madness.  After  fourteen  years  in 
solitude  he  was  permitted  to  indulge  his  dream  of  enriching 
his  ungrateful  country  with  the  El  Dorado  that  had  eluded 
his  messengers.  His  desperate  scheme  collapsed.  The  death- 
sentence  had  been  suspended,  not  annulled.  He  was  executed 
October  29,  1618,  the  semblance  of  legality  being  secured  by 
the  appointment  of  a  commission,  formed  of  Raleigh's 
enemies,  with  Bacon  as  their  mouthpiece,  who  condemned 
Raleigh  ostensibly  on  the  original  charge  of  treason,  but 
actually  for  being  a  greater  Englishman,  patriot,  and  literary 
genius  than  his  titular  superior,  the  king. 

Raleigh  made  a  really  dignified  attempt  to  enlarge  the 
scope  of  general  knowledge  by  writing  his  "  History  of  the 
World."  Though  no  more  than  a  fragment  of  its  projected 
scheme,  its  lofty  conception  and  comprehensive  sweep  give  it 
distinction  as  a  literary  performance,  the  greater  for  the  dole- 
ful environment  of  its  author's  mind  and  body.  His  exquisite 
sonnet  on  his  friend's  "  Faerie  Queene"  sufficiently  illustrates 
his  capacity  for  pure  poetry,  as  does  the  lyric  in  reply  to  Mar- 
lowe's "Passionate  Shepherd."  The  musings  of  a  profound 
mind,  wearied  with  the  falsity  of  much  professed  friendship, 
find  powerful  expression  in  "  The  Soul's  Errand."  Raleigh's 
first  printed  composition  is  the  stirring  story  of  the  last  fight 
of  the  battle-ship  "The  Revenge,"  in  which  Sir  Richard 
Grenville  fought  for  fifteen  hours  against  fifteen  Spanish 
men-of-war,  his  ship  being  but  five  hundred  tons  with  some 
two  hundred  men,  of  whom  ninety  were  sick.  She  sank 
three  of  the  enemy's  vessels  and  killed  fifteen  hundred  men 
before  her  masts  went  overboard.  When  her  deck  was  level 
with  the  sea  and  Grenville  mortally  wounded  he  ordered  the 
gunner  to  sink  the  ship.  Raleigh,  cousin  to  Grenville, 
chronicles  the  incident  as  "The  Last  Fight  of  'The  Re- 
venge '  at  Sea  .  .  .  described  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Novem- 
ber, 1591." 


•528  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


ENGLISH  VALOR. 

(From  the  "  History  of  the  World."). 

ALL  that  have  read  of  Cressy  and  Agincourt  will  bear  me 
witness  that  I  do  not  allege  the  battle  of  Poitiers  for  lack  of 
other  as  good  examples  of  the  English  virtue ;  the  proof 
whereof  hath  left  many  a  hundred  better  marks  in  all  quarters 
of  France,  than  ever  did  the  valor  of  the  Romans.  If  any 
man  impute  these  victories  of  ours  to  the  long-bow,  as  car- 
rying farther,  piercing  more  strongly,  and  quicker  of  discharge 
than  the  French  cross-bow,  my  answer  is  ready — that  in  all 
these  respects  it  is  also  (being  drawn  with  a  strong  arm)  su- 
perior to  the  musket ;  yet  is  the  musket  a  weapon  of  more 
use.  The  gun  and  the  cross-bow  are  of  like  force  when  dis- 
charged by  a  boy  or  a  woman  as  when  by  a  strong  man ; 
weakness,  or  sickness,  or  a  sore  finger,  makes  the  long-bow 
unserviceable.  More  particularly,  I  say  that  it  was  the  custom 
of  our  ancestors  to  shoot,  for  the  most  -part,  point-blank;  and  so 
shall  he  perceive  that  will  note  the  circumstances  of  almost 
any  one  battle.  This  takes  away  all  objection,  for  when  two 
armies  are  within  the  distance  of  a  butt's  length,  one  flight 
of  arrows,  or  two  at  the  most,  can  be  delivered  before  they 
close.  Neither  is  it,  in  general,  true  that  the  long-bow  reach- 
eth  farther,  or  that  it  pierceth  more  strongly  than  the  cross- 
bow. But  this  is  the  rare  effect  of  an  extraordinary  arm, 
whereupon  can  be  grounded  no  common  rule.  If  any  man 
shall  ask,  how  then  came  it  to  pass  that  the  English  won  so 
many  great  battles,  having  no  advantage  to  help  him,  I  may, 
with  best  commendation  of  modesty,  refer  him  to  the  French 
historian,  who,  relating  the  victory  of  our  men  at  Crevant, 
where  they  passed  a  bridge  in  face  of  the  enemy,  useth  these 
words :  ' '  The  English  comes  with  a  conquering  bravery,  as 
he  that  was  accustomed  to  gain  everywhere  without  any  stay  ; 
he  forceth  our  guard,  placed  upon  the  bridge  to  keep  the 
passage."  (John  de  Serres.)  Or  I  may  cite  another  place  of 
the  same  author,  where  he  tells  us  how  the  Britons  [Bretons], 
being  invaded  by  Charles  VIII.,  King  of  France,  thought  it 
good  policy  to  apparel  twelve  hundred  of  their  own  men  in 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  329 

English  cassocks,  that  the  very  sight  of  the  English  red  cross 
would  be  enough  to  terrify  the  French.  But  I  will  not  stand 
to  borrow  of  the  French  historians  (all  of  which,  excepting 
de  Serres  and  Paulus  ^milius,  report  wonders  of  our  nation) ; 
the  proposition  which  first  I  undertook  to  maintain,  that  the 
military  virtue  of  the  English  prevailing  against  all  manner 
of  difficulties  ought  to  be  preferred  before  that  of  the  Romans, 
which  was  assisted  with  all  advantages  that  could  be  desired. 
If  it  be  demanded,  why  then  did  not  our  kings  finish  the  con- 
quest as  Csesar  had  done,  my  answer  may  be — I  hope  without 
offense — that  our  kings  were  like  to  the  race  of  the  ^acidse, 
of  whom  the  old  poet  Ennius  gave  this  note  :  Belli  potentes 
sunt  mage  quam  sapienti  potentes ;  They  were  more  warlike 
than  politic.  Whoso  notes  their  proceedings  may  find  that 
none  of  them  went  to  work  like  a  conqueror,  save  only  King 
Henry  V.,  the  course  of  whose  victories  it  pleased  God  to 
interrupt  by  his  death. 

THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY  TO  THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD. 

(See  Marlowe's  poem,  p.  337.) 
IF  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  one  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And  Philomel  beconieth  dumb, 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue — a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 


330  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

EARLY  ENGIvISH  DRAMA. 

THE  drama  in  modern  Europe  as  well  as  in  ancient 
Greece,  is  of  religious  origin.  It  began  in  the  Church  itself 
in  the  attempts  to  present  vividly  and  reverently  the  scenes 
of  Christmas  and  Easter.  These  were  probably  introduced  in 
England  in  the  twelfth  century  by  the  Normans.  The  Fran- 
ciscan friars,  who  came  first  in  1224,  appear  in  the  next  cen- 
tury to  have  adopted  plays  or  dialogues  as  a  means  of  instruc- 
tion. The  liturgical  dramas  of  the  clergy  and  the  didactic 
plays  of  the  friars  made  way  for  fuller  representations  of 
Scripture  history  in  the  vernacular,  none  of  which  can  be 
traced  earlier  than  the  fourteenth  century.  These  were  chiefly 
connected  with  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi,  which,  though 
instituted  by  Pope  Urban  IV.  in  1264,  was  not  recognized 
until  1311. 

In  these  Miracle  plays  the  actors  were  no  longer  priests, 
but  usually  members  of  the  various  trade-guilds,  whose  shows 
and  processions  were  a  prominent  feature  of  mediaeval  life. 
The  feast  came  early  in  June,  and  in  the  celebration  each 
guild  undertook  to  represent  some  scriptural  event  in  its  "pa- 
geant." The  pageant  or  stage  was  a  decorated  structure  of 
two  stories,  which  could  be  drawn  by  horses  from  station  to 
station  in  the  streets.  The  lower  story  being  enclosed,  served 
as  a  dressing-room  for  the  actors,  while  on  the  open  upper 
stage  the  performance  was  exhibited.  Certain  cities  became 
famous  as  centres  of  these  Corpus  Christi  plays,  especially 
York  and  Chester.  London  is  never  mentioned  in  connection 
with  them.  Besides  the  series  of  Miracle  plays  belonging  to 
these  town-guilds,  there  are  two  others  extant.  One  is  called 
the  Towneley  plays,  from  the  family  which  long  retained  the 
manuscript.  These  plays  were  connected  with  Wakefield  in 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


331 


Yorkshire,  and  seem  to  have  been  prepared  by  the  Augus- 
tinian  Canons  of  Woodkirk,  near  by.  The  second  series  is 
called  the  Coventry  Plays,  and  is  known  to  have  been  per- 
formed in  various  places  by  the  Franciscan  or  Grey  Friars. 


The  themes  of  these  Miracle  plays  were  taken  chiefly  from 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  but  also  from  apocryphal  books 
and  mediaeval  legends.  In  representations  of  the  Gospels 
Christ  constantly  appears,  and  even  the  details  of  his  cruci- 
fixion are  shown ;  in  the  Creation  all  the  Persons  of  the 
Trinity  are  introduced ;  in  other  scenes  Lucifer  is  shown  as 
cast  down  to  hell.  For  relief  from  the  oppressive  tragedies 
or  for  the  amusement  of  the  rabble,  humorous  scenes  were 
sparingly  introduced,  though  the  Franciscans  altogether  ex- 
cluded such  parts.  The  characters  in  these  additions  were 
persons  not  distinctly  named  in  Scripture  or  legend,  though 
necessary  to  the  performance,  as  Noah's  wife,  the  soldiers  who 
slay  the  innocents  at  Bethlehem,  the  beadle  of  Pilate's  court, 
the  Roman  soldiers  who  set  up  the  cross.  In  treating  these 
obscure  characters  the  dramatist  was  less  hampered  by  reli- 
gious considerations,  and  took  the  opportunity  to  introduce 
strokes  of  homely  wit. 

Besides  the  Miracle  plays  there  sprang  up  in  the  fifteenth 
century  a  parallel  series,  called  Moralities.  These  were  dra- 


332  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

matic  versions  of  those  strange  allegories  which  abounded  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  were  intended  to  give  practical  instruc- 
tion in  the  conduct  of  life.  They  set  forth  the  superlative 
excellence  of  the  seven  cardinal  virtues  and  held  up  to  scorn 
the  seven  deadly  sins.  The  dramatic  essence  lay  in  the 
doubtful  contest  of  these  powers  for  the  possession  of  man's 
soul.  The  earliest  extant  play  of  this  class  is  the  "  Castell  of 
Perseverance,"  composed  about  1450.  This  long  drama 
rehearses  the  spiritual  history  of  Man  from  his  feeble  birth 
to  the  dreadful  judgment.  It  depicts  his  struggles  with 
Mundus,  Caro  and  Belial  (the  World,  the  Flesh  and  the 
Devil),  who  are  supported  by  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  while 
Man  receives  help  from  his  Good  Angel  and  the  Cardinal 
Virtues,  who  shower  roses  on  his  assailants.  Avarice,  how- 
ever, conquers  him  in  his  old  age,  and  Man,  dying,  is  almost 
lost  until  Mercy,  by  pleading  Christ's  Passion,  secures  from 
the  Heavenly  Father  the  salvation  of  his  soul.  Later  plays 
of  this  kind  were  shorter  and  were  called  Interludes.  They 
treat  of  portions  of  life,  warn  against  special  sins,  advocate 
the  love  of  learning,  and  sometimes  introduce  theological 
discussions.  These  Moralities  faded  away  like  pale  ghosts 
before  the  splendid  and  overpowering  presence  of  the  new 
and  glorious  creations  of  Marlowe,  Shakespeare  and  their 
rival  dramatists. 

NOAH'S  FLOOD. 

THE  Building  of  the  Ark  and  the  Flood  were  a  favorite  subject 
with  the  composers  of  the  Miracle  Plays.  This  version  is  taken  from 
the  Chester  Plays,  all  the  manuscripts  of  which  were  written  about 
1600.  The  use  of  alliteration  and  other  peculiarities  indicate  that  it 
is  of  much  earlier  origin,  and  A.  W.  Pollard  assigns  it  to  1450.  From 
the  text  given  in  his  Miracle  Plays  the  following  extract  is  taken,  the 
spelling  being  modernized.  God  announces  to  Noah  that  the  earth  is 
to  be  destroyed  by  a  flood,  and  directs  him  to  build  the  ark  for  the 
safety  of  his  family.  Then  Noah  and  his  sons  prepare  to  build  the  Ark. 

Noye.  Now  in  the  name  of  God  I  will  begin 
To  make  the  ship  that  we  shall  in, 
That  we  may  be  ready  for  to  swim 

At  the  coming  of  the  flood. 
These  boards  here  I  pin  together, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  333 

To  bear  us  safe  from  the  weather, 

That  we  may  row  both  hither  and  thither, 

And  safe  be  from  the  flood. 
Of  this  tree  will  I  make  the  mast, 
Tied  with  cables  that  will  last, 
With  a  sail-yard  for  each  blast, 

And  each  thing  in  their  kind. 
With  top-castle,  and  bowsprit, 
With  cords  and  ropes,  I  hold  all  meet 
To  sail  forth  at  the  next  weet,  [rain 

This  ship  is  at  an  end. 
Wife,  in  this  vessel  we  shall  be  kept : 
My  children  and  thou  I  would  ye  in  leapt. 
Noye'  s  Wife.  In  faith,  Noye,  I  had  as  lief  thou  slept ! 

For  all  thy  frynish  fare,  [ingenious 

I  will  not  do  after  thy  rede.  [advice 

Noye.  Good  wife,  do  now  as  I  thee  bid. 
Noye's  Wife.  By  Christ !  not  or  I  see  more  need,  [ere 

Though  thou  stand  all  the  day  and  stare. 
Noye.  L,ord,  that  women  be  crabbed  aye, 

And  none  are  meek,  I  dare  well  say, 
This  is  well  seen  by  me  to-day, 

In  witness  of  you  each  one. 

Good  wife,  let  be  all  beare,  \_loud  noise 

That  thou  mayst  in  this  place  hear ; 
For  all  they  ween  that  thou  art  master, 

And  so  thou  art,  by  Saint  John  ! 

God  then  orders  Noah  to  take  into  the  ark  clean  beasts  by  sevens, 
and  unclean  by  twos.  These  animals  were  painted  on  the  boards,  and 
Noah's  wife  and  sons  rehearse  the  list  of  them. 

Noye.  Wife,  come  in  ;  why  standest  thou  there  ? 
Thou  art  ever  fro  ward,  I  dare  well  swear ; 
Come  in,  in  God's  name  !  half  time  it  were, 

For  fear  lest  that  we  drown. 
Noye's  Wife.  Yea,  sir,  set  up  your  sail, 

And  row  forth  with  evil  hail, 
For  withouten  any  fail, 

I  will  not  out  of  this  town, 

But  I  have  my  gossips  every  one,  [without 

One  foot  further  I  will  not  gone : 
They  shall  not  drown,  by  Saint  John, 


334  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

An  I  may  save  their  life. 
They  love  me  full  well,  by  Christ ! 
But  them  let  them  into  thy  kist,  \ark 

Else  row  now  where  thou  list, 

And  get  thee  a  new  wife. 
Noye.  Sem,  son,  lo !  thy  mother  is  wratve  \wroth 

Forsooth,  such  another  I  do  not  know. 
Sem.  Father,  I  shall  fetch  her  in,  I  trow, 

Withouten  any  fail. 
Mother,  my  father  after  thee  sends 
And  bids  thee  into  yonder  ship  wend. 
lyOok  up  and  see  the  wind, 
For  we  be  ready  to  sail. 
Noye's  Wife.  Sem,  go  again  to  him,  I  say. 

I  will  not  come  therein  to-day. 
Noye.  Come  in,  wife,  in  twenty  devils'  way ! 

Or  else  stand  there  without. 
Ham.  Shall  we  all  fetch  her  in  ? 
Noye.  Yea,  sons,  with  Christ's  blessing  and  mine ! 
I  would  you  hied  you  betime, 

For  of  this  flood  I  am  in  doubt.  \fear 

The  Good  Gossips'  Song. 

The  flood  comes  fleeting  in  full  fast, 

On  every  side  that  spreads  full  far ; 
For  fear  of  drowning  I  am  aghast ; 

Good  gossips,  let  us  draw  near. 
And  let  us  drink  or  we  depart,  [ere 

For  oft-times  we  have  done  so ; 
For  at  a  draught  thou  drink' st  a  quart, 

And  so  will  I  do  or  I  go.  \ere 

Here  is  a  pottle  full  of  Malmsey,  good  and  strong ; 
It  will  rejoice  both  heart  and  tongue. 
Though  Noye  think  us  never  so  long, 

Here  we  will  drink  alike ! 

Japhet.  Mother,  we  pray  you  all  together, 
For  we  are  here,  your  own  childer, 
Come  into  the  ship  for  fear  of  the  weather, 

For  His  love  that  you  bought. 
Noye's  Wife.  That  will  not  I  for  all  your  call, 

But  I  have  my  gossips  all.  [unless 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  335 

Sem.  (Lifting  her.')  In  faith,  mother,  yet  you  shall, 

Whether  thou  wilt  or  not. 

Noye.  (Receiving  her.}  Welcome,  wife,  into  this  boat. 
Noye1  s  Wife.   (Hitting  him  on  the  ear.*)  Have  thou  that  for  thy 

nott.  [head 

Noye.  Ha,  ha !  Marry,  this  is  hot. 

It  is  good  for  to  be  still. 

Ha  !  children,  methinks  my  boat  remeves,  [removes 
Our  tarrying  here  highly  me  grieves, 
Over  the  land  the  water  spreads  ; 

God  do  as  He  will. 
This  window  will  I  shut  anon, 
And  into  my  chamber  will  I  gone, 
Till  this  water,  so  great  One, 
Be  slacked  through  Thy  might. 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE. 

WHEN  Marlowe's  name  is  spoken,  "  Marlowe  of  the 
mighty  line,"  the  poets  join  in  a  chorus  of  praise  for  one  of 
the  greatest  among  them,  yet  one  whose  life  was  short  and 
full  of  troubles,  so  that  his  fame  is  based  on  fragments.  He 
is  pronounced  by  Swinburne  to  be  the  father  of  English 
tragedy  and  the  creator  of  English  blank  verse.  Shake- 
speare himself  paid  Marlowe  the  homage  of  resetting  his 
rough  gems  in  golden  verse.  The  two  were  born  within  a 
few  weeks  of  each  other;  in  both  innate  genius  came  to  early 
maturity. 

Marlowe's  life  is  little  more  than  the  flash  of  a  romantic 
figure  across  a  crowded  stage,  a  brilliant  gleam  and  then  the 
exit  into  silence.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Canterbury  shoe- 
maker, born  in  1564,  helped  to  a  Cambridge  scholarship, 
winning  his  B.A.  as  "Marlyn,"  and  his  M.A.  as  "Marley," 
in  the  slipshod  spelling  of  the  day.  A  few  translations,  and 
some  wild  flings  at  the  Christian  religion  are  all  that  remain 
of  his  earlier  efforts.  He  then  took  to  the  stage  and  the 
vagabond  life  of  an  actor.  A  broken  leg  and  sundry  scars 
were  his  trophies  during  those  scapegrace  years,  yet  the 
ambition  of  his  gifts  impelled  him  to  the  making  of  dramatic 
poetry.  He  gave  the  rein  to  his  fiery  fancy  as  he  wrote 


336  LITERATURE   OF  AL.I,  NATIONS. 

his  first  tragedy  for  the  stage,  "Tamburlaine  the  Great." 
Its  hero,  its  theme  and  opportunities  conspired  to  impress 
Marlowe  with  a  sense  of  boundless  range  for  his  powers. 
Hence  its  dominant  air  of  what  seems  inflated  bombast, 
but  still  magnificent  and  not  unfitting  for  the  Tamerlane 
legend.  Its  exalted  strain  is  tempered  with  many  passages 
of  purest  poetry,  noble  in  spirit  and  of  exquisite  beauty.  The 
play  appeared  in  1587  and  was  printed  two  years  later.  So 
great  was  its  fame  that  the  author  produced  a  Second  Part, 
carrying  on  the  story  and  the  style  of  the  first.  The  greater 
glory  of  this  tragedy  lies  in  its  being  the  first  work  in  which 
poetry  and  blank  verse  are  blent  together  with  complete  suc- 
cess. It  established  the  rule  for  aftercomers  to  follow. 

"The  Tragical  History  of  Doctor  Faustus"  was  Mar- 
lowe's next  production.  In  this  his  genius  reaches  its  highest 
flight,  scarcely  second  to  Shakespeare  at  his  best,  though 
uneven  and  bearing  the  marks  of  impetuous  immaturity. 
To  these  were  added  other  plays,  "The  Jew  of  Malta,"  in 
some  sense  kin  to  Shakespeare's  later  Shylock  ;  "  Edward  the 
Second,"  the  "Massacre  of  Paris,"  a  mere  fragment,  and 
"Dido,  Queen  of  Carthage,"  completed  by  other  hands 
after  Marlowe's  death.  This  death  occured  on  the  1st  of  June, 
1593,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  the  result  of  a  stab  gotten  in  a 
low-life  fray.  In  strange  contrast  with  his  tragic  vein  and 
the  fascination  of  the  prodigal  life  are  his  occasional  excur- 
sions into  the  sweeter  scenes  of  simple  rural  happiness,  mem- 
ories that  inspired  such  charming  lyrics  as  "  The  Passionate 
Shepherd,"  "  that  smooth  song  which  was  made  by  Kit  Mar- 
lowe," beloved  of  Izaak  Walton  and  his  readers. 

The  splendor  of  "Doctor  Faustus  "  as  a  creation  of  poetic 
genius  has  been  recognized  by  Goethe,  the  creator  of  the 
better  known  version  of  the  old  legend.  He  marvelled  at 
the  greatness  with  which  Marlowe's  work  was  planned.  This 
greatness  is  that  of  perfect  simplicity,  as  of  the  Pyramids ; 
the  play  of  the  elemental  forces  of  human  nature  in  all  their 
sublime  aspects,  terrible  and  captivating  in  turn.  The  Faust 
of  Goethe  is  a  very  different  being  to  Marlowe's  Faustus. 
The  first  is  a  philosophic  weakling  compared  to  the  other's 
passionate  devotee  of  all  the  lusts  fierce  natures  rage  after. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  337 

Marlowe  paints  a  realistic  man,  the  creature  but  also  the 
creator  of  his  destiny,  and  it  is  a  picture  so  weird  and  awe- 
inspiring  as  to  remain  unsurpassed  of  its  kind.  The  play,  or 
dramatic  poem,  opens  with  Faustus,  the  necromancer  who  is 
in  touch  with  the  other  world,  praying  L,ucifer  for  larger 
powers.  To  him  is  sent  Mephostophilis,  prime  minister  of 
the  Prince  of  Darkness,  with  whom  Faustus  makes  the  com- 
pact binding  him  to  surrender  his  body  and  soul  twenty-four 
years  hence  in  return  for  the  enjoyment  of  supernatural 
powers  for  that  term.  He  is  now  able  to  fly  as  swiftly  as 
lightning,  and  make  the  powers  of  nature  obey  his  every 
whim.  He  has  spurned  the  appeals  of  his  good  angel,  and 
now,  when  too  late  to  accept,  he  is  haunted  by  their  echoes. 
As  the  years  lapse  he  yearns  for  the  power  to  repent,  but  he 
has  bartered  his  self-command,  and  remorse  goads  him  into 
agony.  The  climax  comes,  and  in  language  of  appalling 
tragic  power  Marlowe  gives  him  up  to  his  doom  with  the 
most  "tremendous  monologue"  in  all  literature. 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOYE. 

(For  the  reply  to  this  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  see  p.  329.) 

COME  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  and  hills  and  field, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yield. 

And  we  shall  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

IV— 22 


338  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ! 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing, 
For  thy  delight  each  May -morning ; 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

THE  DOOM  OF  DOCTOR  FAUSTUS. 

\The  Clock  strikes  Eleven.~\ 

Faust.  O  Faustus, 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damned  perpetually. 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease  and  midnight  never  come. 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again  and  make 
Perpetual  day:  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 
O  lente,  lente,  currite,  noctis  equi* 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damned. 
Oh,  I  will  leap  to  heaven :  who  pulls  me  down  ? 
See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament: 
One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me :  O  my  Christ, — 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ. 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him :  O  spare  me,  I/ucifer. 
Where  is  it  now?  'tis  gone  ! 
And  see  a  threatening  arm  and  angry  brow. 
Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come  and  fall  on  me, 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven. 
No !  then  I  will  headlong  run  into  the  earth : 
Gape,  earth.     Oh,  no,  it  will  not  harbor  me. 
You  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity, 
Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 
Into  the  entrails  of  yon  laboring  cloud ; 
That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 

*  O  slowly,  slowly  run,  ye  steeds  of  Night. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  339 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 
But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven. 

[  The  Watch  strikes. 

Oh,  half  the  hour  is  past :  't  will  all  be  past  anon. 
Oh,  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin, 
Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain. 
I^et  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  saved  : 
No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 
Oh,  Pythagoras'  Metempsychosis,  were  that  true, 
This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  changed 
Into  some  brutish  beast. 
All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die, 
Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements : 
But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 
Cursed  be  the  parents  that  engendered  me : 
No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 
That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

[  The  Clock  strikes  Twelve. 
It  strikes,  it  strikes ;  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  L,ucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell: 
O  soul,  be  changed  into  small  water  drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean  :  ne'er  be  found. 

[  Thunder,  and  enter  the  Devils. 
Oh  mercy,  heaven,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me. 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile : 
Ugly  hell  gape  not,  come  not  L,ucifer : 
I'll  burn  my  books :  Oh,  Mephostophilis ! 

[Enter  Scholars. 

First  Sch.  Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  go  visit  Faustus, 
For  such  a  dreadful  night  was  never  seen 
Since  first  the  world's  creation  did  begin  ; 
Such  fearful  shrieks  and  cries  were  never  heard. 
Pray  heaven  the  Doctor  have  escaped  the  danger. 

Sec.  Sch.  O  help  us  heavens  !  see,  here  are  Faustus'  limbs 
All  torn  asunder  by  the  hand  of  death. 

Third  Sch.  The  devil  whom  Faustus  served  hath  torn 

him  thus : 
For  'twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one,  methought 


340  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

I  heard  him  shriek  and  call  aloud  for  help ; 

At  which  same  time  the  house  seemed  all  on  fire 

With  dreadful  horror  of  these  damned  fiends. 

Sec.  Sch.  Well,  gentlemen,  though  Faustus'  end  be  sucV 
As  every  Christian  heart  laments  to  think  on ; 
Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar  once  admired 
For  wondrous  knowledge  in  our  German  schools, 
We'll  give  his  mangled  limbs  due  burial : 
And  all  the  scholars,  clothed  in  mourning  black, 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy  funeral. 

Chorus.  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full 

straight, 

And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man  : 
Faustus  is  gone  !  Regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  fiendful  fortune  may  exhort  the  wise 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things : 
Whose  deepness  doth  entice  such  forward  wits 
To  practice  more  than  heavenly  power  permits. 

HERO  AND   IvEANDER. 

Mus^us,  a  Greek  poet  of  the  fourth  century  before  Christ,  related 
the  tragical  story  of  the  love  of  Hero  and  Leander  in  three  hundred 
and  forty-one  lines.  This  poem  attracted  attention  in  the  revival  of 
learning,  and  was  first  turned  into  English  by  Marlowe,  who  amplified 
the  story  but  left  it  incomplete.  George  Chapman  (1557-1634)  finished 
the  paraphrase,  but  not  with  equal  success. 

Of  Marlowe's  version  of  this  favorite  classic  tale  it  will  suffice  to 
quote  Swinburne's  estimate.  "  His  poem  stands  alone  in  its  age,  and 
far  ahead  of  any  possible  competition  between  the  death  of  Spenser  and 
the  dawn  of  Milton.  In  clear  mastery  of  narrative  and  presentation, 
in  melodious  ease  and  simplicity  of  strength,  it  is  not  less  pre-eminent 
than  in  the  adorable  beauty  and  perfection  of  separate  lines  or  passages." 

LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT. 

(From  the  First  Sestiad  by  Marlowe.) 

On  Hellespont,  guilty  of  true  love's  blood, 
In  view  and  opposite  two  cities  stood, 
Sea-borderers,  disjoined  by  Neptune's  might ; 
The  one  Abydos,  the  other  Sestos  hight. 
At  Sestos  Hero  dwelt ;  Hero  the  fair, 
Whom  young  Apollo  courted  for  her  hair, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  341 

And  offered  as  a  dower  his  burning  throne, 

Where  she  should  sit,  for  men  to  gaze  upon. 

The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn, 

The  lining  purple  silk,  with  gilt  stars  drawn  ; 

Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  bordered  with  a  grove, 

Where  Venus  in  her  naked  glory  strove 

To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 

Of  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies  ; 

Her  kirtle  blue,  whereon  was  many  a  stain, 

Made  with  the  blood  of  wretched  lovers  slain. 

Upon  her  head  she  wore  a  myrtle  wreath, 

From  whence  her  veil  reached  to  the  ground  beneath : 

Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves, 

Whose  workmanship  both  man  and  beast  deceives : 

Many  would  praise  the  sweet  smell  as  she  passed, 

When  'twas  the  odor  which  her  breath  forth  cast; 

And  there  for  honey  bees  have  sought  in  vain, 

And,  beat  from  thence,  have  lighted  there  again. 

About  her  neck  hung  chains  of  pebble-stone, 

Which,  lightened  by  her  neck,  like  diamonds  shone. 

She  wore  no  gloves ;  for  neither  sun  nor  wind 

Would  burn  or  parch  her  hands,  but,  to  her  mind, 

Or  warm  or  cool  them,  for  they  took  delight 

To  play  upon  those  hands,  they  were  so  white. 

Buskins  of  shells,  all  silvered,  used  she, 

And  branched  with  blushing  coral  to  the  knee ; 

Where  sparrows  perched,  of  hollow  pearl  and  gold, 

Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold : 

Those  with  sweet  water  oft  her  handmaid  fills, 

Which  as  she  went,  would  cherup  through  their  bills. 

Some  say,  for  her  the  fairest  Cupid  pin'd, 

And,  looking  in  her  face,  was  strooken  blind. 

But  this  is  true ;  so  like  was  one  the  other, 

As  he  imagined  Hero  was  his  mother ; 

And  oftentimes  into  her  bosom  flew, 

About  her  naked  neck  his  bare  arms  threw, 

And  laid  his  childish  head  upon  her  breast, 

And,  with  still  panting  rocked,  there  took  his  rest. 

On  this  feast-day, — O  cursed  day  and  hour ! — 
Went  Hero  thorough  Sestos,  from  her  bower 
To  Venus'  temple,  where  unhappily, 


342  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

As  after  chanced,  they  did  each  other  spy. 
So  fair  a  church  as  this  had  Venus  none : 
The  walls  were  of  discolored  jasper-stone, 
Wherein  was  Proteus  carved ;  and  over-head 
A  lively  vine  of  green  sea-agate  spread, 
Where  by  one  hand  light-headed  Bacchus  hung, 
And  with  the  other  wine  from  grapes  out-wrung. 
Of  crystal  shining  fair  the  pavement  was ; 
The  town  of  Sestos  called  it  Venus'  glass : 

For  know,  that  underneath  this  radiant  flower 

Was  Danae's  statue  in  a  brazen  tower; 

Jove  slyly  stealing  from  his  sister's  bed, 

To  dally  with  Idalian  Ganymed, 

And  for  his  love  Europa  bellowing  loud, 

And  tumbling  with  the  Rainbow  in  a  cloud ; 

Blood-quaffing  Mars  heaving  the  iron  net 

Which  limping  Vulcan  and  his  Cyclops  set ; 

I,ove  kindling  fire,  to  burn  such  towns  as  Troy ; 

Silvanus  weeping  for  the  lovely  boy 

That  now  is  turned  into  a  cypress-tree, 

Under  whose  shade  the  wood-gods  love  to  be. 

And  in  the  midst  a  silver  altar  stood : 

There  Hero,  sacrificing  turtles'  blood,  \doves' 

Veiled  to  the  ground,  veiling  her  eyelids  close ; 

And  modestly  they  opened  as  she  rose; 

Thence  flew  Love's  arrow  with  the  golden  head; 

And  thus  Leander  was  enamored. 

Stone-still  he  stood,  and  evermore  he  gazed, 

Till  with  the  fire,  that  from  his  countenance  blazed. 

Relenting  Hero's  gentle  heart  was  strook  : 

Such  force  and  virtue  had  an  amorous  look. 

It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-ruled  by  fate. 
When  two  are  stripped,  long  ere  the  course  begin,. 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect 
Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect : 
The  reason  no  man  knows ;  let  it  suffice, 
What  we  behold  is  censured  by  our  eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight : 
Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  343 

He  kneeled ;  but  unto  her  devoutly  prayed ; 
Chaste  Hero  to  herself  thus  softly  said, 
' '  Were  I  the  saint  he  worships,  I  would  hear  him ; ' ' 
And,  as  she  spake  those  words,  came  somewhat  near  him. 
He  started  up ;  she  blushed  as  one  ashamed  ; 
Wherewith  L,eaiider  much  more  was  inflamed. 
He  touched  her  hand ;  in  touching  it  she  trembled : 
lyOve  deeply  grounded,  hardly  is  dissembled. 
These  lovers  parleyed  by  the  touch  of  hand;- : 
True  love  is  mute,  and  oft  amazed  stands. 
Thus  while  dumb  signs  their  yielding  hearts  entangled, 
The  air  with  sparks  of  living  fire  was  spangled ; 
And  night,  deep  drenched  in  misty  Acheron, 
Heaved  up  her  head,  and  half  the  world  upon 
Breathed  darkness  forth  (dark  night  is  Cupid's  day): 
And  now  begins  L,eander  to  display 
Love's  holy  fire,  with  words,  with  sighs,  and  tears ; 
Which,  like  sweet  music,  entered  Hero's  ears ; 
And  yet  at  every  word  she  turned  aside, 
And  always  cut  him  off,  as  he  replied. 

These  arguments  he  used,  and  many  more ; 
Wherewith  she  yielded,  that  was  won  before. 
Hero's  looks  yielded,  but  her  words  made  war  ; 
Women  are  won  when  they  begin  to  jar. 
Thus  having  swallowed  Cupid's  golden  hook. 
The  more  she  strived,  the  deeper  was  she  strook : 
Yet,  evilly  feigning  anger,  strove  she  still, 
And  would  be  thought  to  grant  against  her  will. 
So  having  paused  awhile,  at  last  she  said, 
' '  Who  taught  thee  rhetoric  to  deceive  a  maid  ? 
Ay  me  !  such  words  as  these  should  I  abhor, 
And  yet  I  like  them  for  the  orator. ' ' 
With  that  I^eander  stooped  to  have  embraced  her. 
But  from  his  spreading  arms  away  she  cast  her, 
And  thus  bespake  him :  ' '  Gentle  youth,  forbear 
To  touch  the  sacred  garments  which  I  wear. 
Upon  a  rock,  and  underneath  a  hill, 
Far  from  the  town  (where  all  is  whist  and  still, 
Save  that  the  sea,  playing  on  yellow  sand, 
Sends  forth  a  rattling  murmur  to  the  land, 
Whose  sound  allures  the  golden  Morpheus 


344  UTBRATURB  OF  AW,  NATIONS. 

In  silence  of  the  night  to  visit  us), 

My  turret  stands ;  and  there,  God  knows,  I  play 

With  Venus'  swans  and  sparrows  all  the  day. 

A  dwarfish  beldam  bears  me  company, 

That  hops  about  the  chamber  where  I  lie, 

And  spends  the  night,  that  might  be  better  spent, 

In  vain  discourse  and  apish  merriment : — 

Come  thither."     As  she  spake  this,  her  tongue  tripped, 

For  unawares,  "  Come  thither,"  from  her  slipped; 

And  suddenly  her  former  color  changed, 

And  here  and  there  her  eyes  through  anger  ranged ; 

And,  like  a  planet  moving  several  ways 

At  one  self  instant,  she,  poor  soul,  assays, 

Loving,  not  to  love  at  all,  and  every  part 

Strove  to  resist  the  motions  of  her  heart : 

And  hands  so  pure,  so  innocent,  nay,  such 

As  might  have  made  Heaven  stoop  to  have  a  touch, 

Did  she  uphold  to  Venus,  and  again 

Vowed  spotless  chastity ;  but  all  in  vain  ; 

Cupid  beats  down  her  prayers  with  his  wings  ; 

Her  vows  about  the  empty  air  he  flings : 

All  deep  enraged,  his  sinewy  bow  he  bent, 

And  shot  a  shaft  that  burning  from  him  went ; 

Wherewith  she  strooken,  looked  so  dolefully, 

As  made  I/Dve  sigh  to  see  his  tyranny ; 

And,  as  she  wept,  her  tears  to  pearl  he  turned, 

And  wound  them  on  his  arm,  and  for  her  mourned. 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

KEATS'S  famous  sonnet,  "  On  Reading  Chapman's  Homer," 
has  given  this  translator  lasting  fame,  not  undeserved.  Al- 
though he  deliberately  undertook  to  "adorn  his  original," 
and  introduced  many  peculiarities  of  Elizabethan  verse,  yet 
he  retained  the  fire  and  vigor  of  Homer.  In  no  other  trans- 
lation is  the  rapidity  of  the  Greek  so  well  represented,  though 
often  at  the  expense  of  its  grand  simplicity.  In  his  "Iliads" 
he  used  rhymed  verses  of  fourteen  syllables,  thus  approaching 
more  closely  to  the  original  hexameters  than  in  the  heroic 
couplet  used  by  Pope,  or  the  blank  verse  of  Cowper  and  Bry- 
ant. In  the  "Odyssey"  Chapman  employed  the  ten-syllabled 
iambic  verse,  but  wielded  it  with  less  power  than  he  had 


GlVON     BOOENHAUSEN,      Pi  NX 

HERO  AND  LEANDER 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  345 

shown  with  the  other.  Chapman  was  born  in  1557,  and  re- 
ceived a  university  education.  He  wrote  many  plays,  but  had 
not  true  dramatic  force.  His  best  tragedy  is  the  "  Bussy 
d'  Ambois."  He  delighted  in  conceits  and  in  a  show  of  learning, 
and  when  he  found  that  readers  did  not  care  for  it,  he  vowed 
that  he  detested  popularity.  Besides  translating  the  whole  of 
Homer,  he  took  up  Marlowe's  unfinished  "Hero  and  Leander" 
and  brought  the  story  to  a  close.  He  died  in  1634. 

THE  DROWNED  LOVER. 

(From  the  Sixth  Sestiad  of  "  Hero  and  L,eander"  by  Chapman.) 

NIGHT,  close  and  silent,  now  goes  fast  before 
The  captains  and  the  soldiers  to  the  shore, 
On  whom  attend  the  appointed  fleet 
At  Sestos  bay,  that  should  Leander  meet, 
Who  feigned  he  in  another  ship  would  pass ; 
Which  must  not  be,  for  no  one  mean  there  was 
To  get  his  love  home  but  the  course  he  took. 
Forth  did  his  beauty*  for  his  beauty  look, 
And  saw  her  through  her  torch,  as  you  behold 
Sometimes  within  the  sun  a  face  of  gold, 
Formed  in  strong  thought,  by  that  tradition's  force, 
That  says  a  god  sits  there  and  guides  his  course. 
His  sister  was  with  him,  to  whom  he  showed 
His  guide  by  sea,  and  said — "  Oft  have  you  viewed 
In  one  heaven  many  stars,  but  never  yet 
In  one  star  many  heavens  till  now  were  met. 
See,  lovely  sister,  see,  now  Hero  shines, 
No  heaven  but  hers  appears,  each  star  repines, 
And  all  are  clad  in  clouds,  as  if  they  mourned 
To  be  by  influence  of  earth  out-burned." 
Off  went  his  silk  robe  and  in  he  leapt, 
Whom  the  kind  waves  so  licorously  cleapt, 
Thickening  for  haste  one  on  another  so, 
To  kiss  his  skin,  that  he  might  almost  go 
To  Hero's  tower,  had  that  kind  minute  lasted; 
But  now  the  cruel  Fates  with  Ate  hasted 
To  all  the  winds,  and  made  them  battle  fight 
Upon  the  Hellespont  for  cither's  right, 
Pretended  to  the  windy  monarchy. 

*  A  fantastic  expression  for  his  eye. 


346  LITERATURE  OF   ALL  NATIONS. 

And  forth  they  break  :  the  seas  mixed  with  the  sky, 

And  tossed  distressed  Leander,  being  in  hell, 

As  high  as  heaven. — Bliss  not  in  height  doth  dwell. 

The  Destinies  sat  dancing  on  the  waves, 

To  see  the  glorious  winds  with  mutual  braves 

Consume  each  other.     Poor  Leander  cried 

For  help  to  sea-born  Venus — she  denied ; 

To  Boreas,  that,  for  his  Atthea's  sake, 

He  would  some  pity  on  his  Hero  take, 

And  for  his  own  love's  sake  on  his  desires: 

But  glory  never  blows  cold  pity's  fires. 

Then  called  he  Neptune,  who  through  all  the  noise 

Knew  with  affright  his  wracked  Leander 's  voice, 

And  up  he  rose:  for  haste  his  forehead  hit 

'Gainst  heaven's  hard  crystal ;  his  proud  waves  he  smit 

With  his  forked  sceptre,  that  could  not  obey; 

Much  greater  power  than  Neptune's  gave  them  sway. 

They  loved  Leander  so,  in  groans  they  brake, 

When  they  came  near  him,  and  such  space  did  take 

'Twixt  one  another,  loath  to  issue  on, 

That  in  their  shallow  furrows  earth  was  shown, 

And  the  poor  lover  took  a  little  breath ; 

But  the  cursed  Fates  sat  spinning  of  his  death 

On  every  wave,  and  with  the  servile  winds 

Tumbled  them  on  him.     And  now  Hero  finds, 

By  that  she  felt,  her  dear  Leander's  state. 

She  wept  and  prayed  for  him  to  every  Fate ; 

And  every  wind  that  whipped  her  with  her  hair 

About  the  face,  she  kissed  and  spake  it  fair, 

Kneeled  to  it,  gave  it  drink  out  of  her  eyes 

To  quench  his  thirst ;  but  still  their  cruelties 

E'en  her  poor  torch  envied,  and  rudely  beat 

The  bating  flame  from  that  dear  food  it  ate : 

Dear,  for  it  nourished  her  Leander' s  life, 

Which  with  her  robe  she  rescued  from  their  strife, 

But  silk  too  soft  was  such  hard  hearts  to  break, 

And  she,  dear  soul,  e'en  as  her  silk,  faint,  weak, 

Could  not  preserve  it — Out,  oh,  out  it  went ! 

Leander  still  called  Neptune,  that  now  rent 
His  brackish  curls  and  tore  his  wrinkled  face, 
Where  tears  in  billows  did  each  other  chase ; 
And,  burst  with  ruth,  he  hurled  his  marble  mace 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  347 

At  the  stern  Fates :  it  wounded  Lachesis, 

That  drew  Leander's  thread,  and  could  not  miss 

The  thread  itself,  as  it  her  hand  did  hit, 

But  smote  it  full,  and  quite  did  sunder  it. 

The  more  kind  Neptune  raged,  the  more  he  rased 

His  love's  life's  fort  and  killed  as  he  embraced ; 

O  thievish  Fates  !  to  let  blood,  flesh  and  sense, 

Build  two  fair  temples  for  their  excellence, 

To  rob  it  with  a  poisoned  influence. 

And  now  did  all  the  tyrannous  crew  depart, 
Knowing  there  was  a  storm  in  Hero's  heart 
Greater  than  they  could  make  and  scorned  their  smart. 
She  bowed  herself  so  low  out  of  her  tower, 
That  wonder  'twas  she  fell  not  ere  her  hour, 
With  searching  the  lamenting  waves  for  him. 
I^ike  a  poor  snail,  her  gentle  supple  limb 
Hung  on  her  turret's  top,  so  most  downright, 
As  she  would  dive  beneath  the  darkness  quite, 
To  find  her  jewel,  jewel,  her  Leander; 
A  name  of  all  earth's  jewels  pleased  not  her, 
Ivike  his  dear  name — "  Leander,  still  my  choice  ! 
Come  nought  but  my  Leander:  O  my  voice, 
Turn  to  L,eander ;  henceforth  be  all  sounds, 
Accents  and  phrases,  that  show  all  grief's  wounds, 
Annalized  in  I^eander.     O  black  change  ! 
Trumpets,  do  you,  with  thunder  of  your  clang, 
Drive  out  this  change's  horror ;  my  voice  faints, 
Where  all  joy  was,  now  shriek  out  all  complaints." 

Thus  cried  she,  for  her  vexed  soul  could  tell 
Her  love  was  dead.     And  when  the  morning  fell 
Prostrate  upon  the  weeping  earth  for  woe, 
Blushes  that  bled  out  of  her  cheeks,  did  show 
Leander  brought  by  Neptune  bruised  and  torn. 
With  cities'  ruins  he  to  rocks  had  worn, 
To  filthy  usuring  rocks  that  would  have  blood, 
Though  they  could  get  of  him  no  other  good. 
She  saw  him  and  the  sight  was  much,  much  more, 
Than  might  have  served  to  kill  her,  should  her  store 
Of  giant  sorrow  speak,  burst,  die,  bleed, 
And  leave  poor  plaints  to  us  that  shall  succeed. 
She  fell  on  her  love's  bosom,  hugged  it  fast, 
And  with  L,eander's  name  she  breathed  her  last. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 
o 


BOOKS  innumerable  have 
done  homage  to  Shake- 
speare's genius,  great  libra- 
ries in  various  languages 
have  grown  in  the  process 
of  revealing  his  mastery 
'  over  thought  and  expres- 

sion, sounding  his  depth  and  measuring  his  height  as  the 
supreme  poet  of  all  time,  and  yet,  after  all,  he  dwells  remote 
as  a  star.  His  radiance  we  see  and  feel,  his  omniscience  in 
the  realm  of  human  nature  declares  itself,  but  the  author  of 
those  world-embracing,  world-revealing  works  remains  imper- 
sonal, known  by  that  face  serenely  noble,  but  hardly  other 
sure  signs  of  common  mortality  ;  an  intangible  embodiment 
of  all  the  forces  and  graces  possible  to  prose  and  poetry. 

William  Shakespeare  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 
Warwickshire,  on  St.  George's  day,  April  23d,  1564.  His 
father  a  well-to-do  trader  in  that  market  town,  rose  through 
various  honorary  offices  to  be  its  high-bailiff,  or  mayor.  He 
was  able  to  give  William,  the  first-born  of  eight  children, 
as  good  an  education  as  the  town  afforded.  Ben  Jonson  un- 
graciously tells  us  he  had  "  little  Latin  and  less  Greek,"  but 
there  is  evidence  in  his  earliest  plays,  and  in  the  choice  of 
theme  for  his  poems,  to  show  that  Shakespeare  had  absorbed 
the  soul  of  classical  learning.  He  was  taken  from  school  at 
fourteen  to  help  his  father  in  business,  and  perhaps  there 
acquired  the  education  in  the  world's  ways  that  shows  so 
maturely  in  his  earliest  work.  His  father's  prodigal  good- 
fellowship,  leading  to  poverty  and  shame  without  positive 
disgrace,  did  not  lessen  the  son's  aptitude  for  conviviality, 
though  it  taught  him  prudence.  There  are  some  traditions 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  349 

of  a  deer-stealing  frolic,  with  troublesome  consequences.  The 
sudden  marriage  of  this  lad  of  eighteen  to  Anne  Hathaway, 
his  senior  by  eight  years,  is  one  of  the  few  leading  facts  of 
this  period.  Before  he  reached  his  twenty-first  birthday 
Shakespeare  was  the  father  of  three  children,  two  being  twins. 
Shrewd  as  he  was  in  worldly  affairs,  he  had  no  taste  for 
the  drudgery  of  the  market-place.  Doubtless  he  had  revelled 
in  the  stage-plays  that  were  given  on  holidays,  the  mysteries, 
masques  and  May-pole  dances  that  linked  mediaevalism  with 
the  new  era  of  the  Reformation  and  Renaissance.  Three  of 
the  foremost  actor-playwrights  of  the  new  stage  were  Strat- 
ford men,  Burbage,  Heminge  and  Greene,  and  they  may  have 
pricked  young  Shakespeare's  ambition.  He  went  to  London 
when  he  was  about  three-and-twenty,  and  for  the  next  five 
years  there  are  no  details  of  his  doings,  except  that  he  visited 
his  country  home  at  least  once  each  year,  and  took  active 
interest  in  his  father's  affairs  as  well  as  his  own.  He  had 
established  himself  as  an  actor  and  an  acceptable  writer  of 
plays  by  1592.  The  "Venus  and  Adonis"  was  published 
in  1593,  with  dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  who 
was  not  yet  of  age,  but  none  the  less  a  patron  and  something 
more.  This  was  the  dawn  of  wider  fame  for  the  hard-work- 
ing, versatile  young  countryman.  Coldly  classical,  yet  youth- 
fully lavish  in  florid  imagery  and  gorgeous  color,  this  rare 
first  effort  disclosed  powers  which  none  were  better  able  to 
estimate  at  their  full  value  than  he.  His  envious,  because 
outstript,  rival,  Greene,  wrote  in  that  same  year  the  well- 
known  snarl  at  the  ' '  upstart  crow,  beautiful  in  our  feathers, 
that,  with  his  tiger's  heart  wrapped  in  a  player's  hide, 
supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast  out  a  blank  verse 
as  the  best  of  (us),  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum, 
is,  in  his  own  conceit,  the  only  Shakescene  in  the  country." 
It  was  the  rule  to  patch  up  and  recast  other  people's  plays, 
and  make  new  ones  out  of  any  old  story  that  had  the  requisite 
backbone  of  dramatic  interest.  Step  by  step  Shakespeare  felt 
his  way  on  this  path  to  creative  authorship.  By  1599,  besides 
various  collaborations  with  others,  he  had  produced  "Love's 
Labor  Lost,"  the  "  Comedy  of  Errors,"  "  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,"  and  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  By  the  time 


UTERATURB  OF  AH  NATIONS. 

he  was  thirty-three  he  was  able  to  buy  a  house  .in  his  native 
town,  with  two  gardens  and  barns.  He  was  soon  part  owner 
of  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe  theatres. 

The  times  were  ripe  for  greatness  in  every  venture.  What 
new  forces  came  into  play  in  those  palpitating  Elizabethan 
days  need  no  describing  here.  It  was  sunrise  after  night, 
renewed  life  after  seeming  death.  There  had  come  a  bracing 
wave  of  inspiration  which  kindled  enthusiasm  in  each  strong 
spirit.  England  was  putting  on  her  strength  against  the  de- 
signs of  suspected  enemies  of  church  and  state.  Patriotic  fervor 
stirred  poets  no  less  than  soldiers,  and  moved  the  playwrights 
to  turn  history  to  account  in  their  portrayal  of  mighty  human 
passions.  This  brought  new  interest  and  power  to  the  thea- 
tre. The  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada  turned  old  England 
into  a  new  world  of  great  hearts,  throbbing  with  high  aspira- 
tions, bent  upon  achieving  conquests  hitherto  undreamed  of. 
Her  sailors  swept  the  seas  in  quest  of  glory  and  gold.  Her 
poets  sang  as  never  before  of  honor,  love,  beauty,  national 
greatness.  Printing  was  done,  but  books  were  scarce.  Yet 
these  voices  must  have  a  place  to  be  heard,  the  moving  scenes 
of  their  own  as  well  of  ancient  history  demanded  a  stage-set- 
ting to  school  the  masses  into  patriotic  pride,  and  to  furnish 
a  vent  for  the  proud  gifts  of  the  poets  and  players.  So  rose 
the  theatre  to  its  highest  pitch  as  a  vital  influence,  and  with  it 
rose  the  dramatists  who  understood  the  drift  of  things,  and 
saw  into  the  secret  of  destiny  in  its  workings  on  a  strong 
people.  Shakespeare  took  the  tide  at  its  flood.  He  was  him- 
self the  mirror  of  his  times.  Large  and  small,  he  had  stored 
something  of  every  experience  possible  to  boy,  youth  or  man 
in  those  stirring  days.  What  balance  of  experience  he  missed 
in  his  own  person  he  richly  made  up  by  use  of  an  imagination 
that  realized  all  that  others  only  fancy.  Power  such  as  this 
inevitably  compelled  success,  as  it  is  accounted  in  the  market, 
and  outwardly  this  was  enough  for  him. 

For  twenty  years  Shakespeare  worked  at  his  theatrical 
business,  dropping  out  of  the  actor  list.  In  1596  his  only  son, 
Hamnet,  died,  a  lad  of  twelve,  and  several  relations  in  the 
same  year.  His  Stratford  properties,  when  he  was  forty-one, 
yielded  him  an  income  equal  to  seventeen  hundred  dollars  a 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  HOUSE. 


year,  and  he  got  probably  twice  as  much  from  the  theatres. 
In  1607  his  eldest  daughter,  Susanna,  married  an  eminent  local 
physician,  and  his  mother  died.  Soon  after  this  he  retired 
from  London  and  his  professional  life,  spending  his  last  years 
in  his  native  town.  Remembering  his  father's  embittered 
latter  years,  Shakespeare  husbanded  his  means  with  the  prac- 
tical sagacity  that  from  the  start  was  the  secret  of  his  success, 
compared  with  the  recklessness  of  such  as  Marlowe.  After 
a  few  years  of  opulent 
ease  as  a  country  gentle- 
man, delighting  to  play 
the  host  to  his  old  com- 
rades, Ben  Jonson,  Dray- 
ton  and  the  rest,  Shake- 
speare was  carried  oft 
by  a  three  days'  fever  on 
his  fifty-second  birthday. 
His  monument  in  the 
chancel  of  the  Stratford  church,  and  his  epitaphs,  there  and 
in  the  books,  are  well  known.  His  widow  survived  him  seven 
years.  His  property  he  left  to  his  daughters,  with  legacies  to 
some  of  his  associates  and  to  the  poor  of  Stratford. 

The  sources  on  which  Shakespeare  drew  for  his  English 
historical  plays  were  mainly  Holinshed's  "Chronicles,"  pub- 
lished in  1577.  North's  English  translation  of  Plutarch's 
' '  Lives ' '  served  for  the  Roman  plays  ;  The  stories  of  Lear, 
Cymbeline,  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet,  came  from  Holinshed  and 
other  old  chronicles,  and  Saxo  Grammaticus,  which  had  been 
already  used  in  poems  and  crude  plays.  For  the  Greek  plots 
Shakespeare  was  indebted  to  Caxton's  histories  of  Troy,  and 
to  Chaucer's  and  Chapman's  poems.  Romeo,  Shylock,  Bene- 
dick and  Beatrice,  Othello,  and  a  few  light  comedy  charac- 
ters came  from  the  Italian,  in  which  Shakespeare  was  more 
or  less  versed,  and  the  writings  of  Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  Ban- 
dello,  and  others,  were  in  the  height  of  popularity.  The 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  "As  You  Like  It,"  and  the 
"Winter's  Tale,"  are  English,  as  also  one  or  two  of  the 
group,  "  Love's  Labor's  Lost,"  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona," 
"The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  and  "  The  Tempest." 


35 2  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

The  earliest  tragedy,  "Titus  Andronicus,"  is  held  to  be 
only  partly,  if  at  all,  by  Shakespeare.  Certain  it  is  that  he 
discarded  this  gruesome  style  ever  after,  though  lines  from  it 
are  repeated  in  later  plays  of  his.  It  may  have  been  his 
trial-piece  leading  up  to  his  first  serious  attempt  in  tragedy, 
on  nobler  lines  than  those  chosen  by  Kyd  and  Marlowe  before 
him.  His  first  entirely  original  piece  was  the  whimsical 
comedy  "Love's  Labor  Lost,"  a  sprightly  poking  of  fun  at 
the  pedantry  then  in  fashion.  But  Shakespeare's  profound 
mastery  of  life  as  it  is  shows  itself  thus  early  in  his  dashing 
down  the  cup  of  pleasure  just  as  it  touches  the  expectant 
lip.  This  strikes  the  key-note  of  all  Shakespeare's  creations. 
He  sees  that  fortune's  favorites  no  more  than  he  can  escape 
the  sudden  lowering  cloud  with  its  torrent  and  thunderbolt, 
even  in  the  sunny  joy  of  a  midsummer  day's  frolic.  This 
grim  reality  he  never  forgets  and  never  flinches  from  remind- 
ing us.  And  the  same  recklessness  of  fate  is  thrust  into  the 
tragedies,  where  intermittent  gleams  of  irresistible  humor 
unexpectedly  light  up  the  scene  when  the  tension  gets 
unbearable.  This  shows  with  what  all-embracing  grasp  he 
seizes  upon  the  complete  scene,  whether  of  thought  or  action, 
omitting  no  factor  that  goes  to  the  making  up  of  an  abso- 
lutely true  picture  to  the  life.  Be  it  natural  gift  or  acquired 
art — or  more  likely  both — the  thing  is  unique  in  the  produc- 
tions of  young  men,  and  we  must  keep  in  mind  that  no  poet 
or  painter,  or  man  of  action,  however  great  his  conquest, 
ever  comprehended  so  vast  a  diversity  of  achievements  as  are 
found  in  a  single  play. 

The  early  comedies  indicate  the  trend  towards  grander 
effort,  as  in  the  "Merchant  of  Venice,"  "Much  Ado  about 
Nothing,"  and  "As  You  Like  it,"  and  also  towards  tragedy. 
The  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  when  played  at  all,  is 
still  presented  as  the  masque  it  probably  was  written  to  be, 
but  there  is  a  world  of  Shakespeare  study  in  it.  He  gives 
his  genius  free  play  in  any  and  all  directions  it  fancies,  noble 
characters  majestically  discourse  and  act,  nature  decks  herself 
in  fullest  charms,  poetry  soars  like  the  eagle  and  sings  like 
the  nightingale,  and  the  enchanted  realm  of  fairyland  conde- 
scends to  become  real  to  every  sense.  Then,  as  if  to  dare  the 


BNGUSH   LITERATURE.  353 

perils  of  failure,  Shakespeare  picks  up  a  handful  of  British 
boors,  rough,  ignorant,  clumsy  and  stupid,  and  sets  them 
gravely  burlesquing  the  ranting  tragedy  that  ruled  the  stage 
and  the  public.  He  has  made  one  of  his  heroes  speak  of  the 
poet,  the  lunatic,  and  the  lover,  as  much  the  same  in  mental 
make-up.  Here  if  anywhere  is  to  found  the  thin  line  that 
divides  madness  from  genius,  for  genius  never  towered  higher 
over  conventionality  than  when  Shakespeare  so  audaciously 
mixed  ugliness  with  beauty,  nonsense  with  philosophy,  tragic 
elements  with  clownish  simplicity,  poesy  with  grossness,  and 
sprites  with  mortals,  as  in  this  illuminating  fantasy. 

The  historical  plays,  in  spite  of  their  many-sidedness,  show 
Shakespeare  as  a  true  Briton.  The  English  plays  bristle  with 
all  the  activities  of  that  restless  time.  The  characters  seem  born 
for  the  stage,  strong  temperaments  moving  simple-minded  men 
to  great  actions,  good  or  bad.  The  scenes  are  crowded  with 
types  of  the  country  and  period,  kings,  nobles,  adventurers, 
rakes,  carousers,  and  women  of  every  grade.  They  move  in 
all  the  actuality  of  daily  life,  letting  out  their  real  thoughts, 
hiding  nothing,  qualifying  no  blunt  utterance  to  suit  a  tender 
taste,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  never  did  kings  speak  such 
majestic  English,  nor  the  typical  characters  give  voice  to  such 
poetry,  such  eloquence  or  ruggedly  powerful  speech.  It  is 
tempting  to  pick  out  our  supposed  Shakespeare  from  passages 
in  these  plays  which  have  the  clear  ring  of  individual  sincer- 
ity, but  we  are  not  in  the  presence  of  an  individual,  but  of  a 
universal  man,  who  interprets  all  that  stirs  all  men's  souls. 
We  may,  however,  safely  trace  the  English  heart  of  him  in 
every  page.  Dowden  groups  these  plays,  omitting  the  doubt- 
ful Henry  VIII.,  not  wholly  Shakespeare's,  into  two  sets  of 
three  each,  one  set  consisting  of  studies  of  kingly  weakness, 
the  other  of  kingly  strength.  In  the  former  we  have  King 
John,  King  Richard  II.,  and  King  Henry  VI ;  in  the  latter 
King  Henry  IV.,  King  Henry  V.,  and  King  Richard  III. 

In  the  great  tragedies  the  genius,  the  painstaking  art,  the 
expanded  powers,  and  the  ripeness  of  Shakespeare's  exper- 
ience find  their  consummation.  "Hamlet"  was  composed 
in  his  thirty-ninth  year,  completed,  most  probably,  after  long 
labor.  Over  this  great  tragic  poem  of  action  the  profoundest 
iv— 23 


354  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

minds  of  three  centuries  have  never  wearied  trying  "  to  pluck 
the  heart  out  of  its  mystery,"  without  success  in  agreement. 
To  Hamlet,  the  pliant  weathercock  of  every  veering  breeze, 
succeeded  Othello,  the  sport  of  brute  passion,  Lear,  sublimest 
tragedy  of  blind  fatalism,  Macbeth,  weak  victim  of  super- 
stition and  a  stronger  will,  Antony,  the  prey  of  infatuation, 
Coriolanus,  the  victim  of  pride,  with  the  earlier  Julius  Caesar, 
and  the  later  Timon.  They  are  seen  on  the  stage,  and  read 
and  studied  by  young  and  old  as  part  of  our  necessary  cul- 
ture, and  the  opinions  of  scholars,  poets,  and  competent 
actor-students  are  accessible  to  all.  They  place  these  trage- 
dies, with  their  many  blemishes,  at  the  summit  of  human 
achievement  with  mind  and  pen. 

Not  to  speak  of  the  thick  stratum  of  fun  that  runs  through 
Shakespeare's  work  would  be  to  forget  an  element  as  vital  as 
his  poetic  gift  in  any  attempt  to  estimate  his  power.  It  is 
not  to  be  lightly  labelled  as  humor,  much  less  as  wit,  nor 
even  drollery.  It  is  literally  the  natural  expression  of  the 
delight  in  fun  innate  in  every  human  being,  which  expression 
varies  with  breed  and  circumstances,  but  insists  on  its  right 
to  share  in  every  other  expression  of  emotions.  Shakespeare 
would  have  abhorred  the  delusion  that  humor  can  be  manu- 
factured and  purveyed  to  order.  He  allows  it  as  free  play 
as  tears  and  passion,  and  in  its  fine  and  coarse  variety,  often 
jarring  but  never  pointless,  we  have  one  more  evidence  of  his 
fidelity  to  truth,  and  of  his  universality. 

This  word  recalls  the  strange  isolation,  already  referred 
to,  of  the  man  from  his  work.  He  lives  in  it,  paints  his 
mind's  portrait  somewhere  on  every  page,  yet  so  broken  up 
that  it  defies  piecing  with  any  certainty  that  the  mosaic  is 
the  true  man.  If  he  is  a  realist  of  realists  in  the  plays,  what 
of  his  idealism  in  the  Sonnets?  Here  his  mysteriousness 
grows  still  more  vague.  In  them  he  is  two  personalities  at 
least,  in  his  plays  he  is  a  hundred.  Whatever  he  was  when 
he  took  up  his  pen,  that  was  the  man  he  then  portrayed, 
and  who  so  faithfully,  who  so  inexpressibly  beautifully? 
The  Sonnets  reflect  every  phase  of  the  "lunatic  lover's" 
malady ;  he  had  gone  through  the  entire  experience,  and 
lie  frankly  tells  it.  As  sonnets  they  break  through  the 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  355 

strict  rule,  as  indeed  their  author  burst  every  fettering  law 
of  poetical  art,  and  grammar  itself,  when  his  Muse  took 
wing.  Taine  marks  this  unrestrainable  rush  of  ideas  :  "  He 
imagines  with  copiousness  and  excess  .  .  .  Ready,  impetu- 
ous, impassioned,  delicate,  his  genius  is  pure  imagination, 
touched  more  vividly  and  by  slighter  things  than  ours. 
Hence  his  style,  blooming  with  exuberant  images,  loaded 
with  exaggerated  metaphors,  whose  strangeness  is  like  inco- 
herence, whose  wealth  is  superabundant,  the  work  of  a  mind 
which,  at  the  least  incitement,  produces  too  much  and  leaps 
too  far."  Anything  next  to  hand  is  pressed  into  service  to 
eke  out  a  line  or  give  a  thought  the  precise  tint  needed,  but 
how  that  thought  burns,  how  that  line  sings,  through  and 
above  their  verbal  cage  ! 

His  measureless  greatness  has  provoked  attempts  to  rob 
Shakespeare  of  his  authorship,  or  to  share  it  for  him  with 
Lord  Bacon.  The  thing  is  interesting  only  as  throwing  light 
on  a  curious  misdirection  of  ingenuity,  particularly  that 
which  laboriously  constructs  a  cipher  out  of  the  plays  in 
distant  imitation  of  Poe's  brilliant  "Gold  Bug"  exploit. 

Shakespeare  being  human,  had  his  limitations.  It  is 
interesting  to  know  that  though  he  lived  in  the  exciting 
Reformation  time  he  gives  no  portrait  of  either  Catholic 
or  Protestant.  Neither  does  he  introduce  an  artist,  a  stu- 
dent, or  a  printer,  important  factors  in  the  Renaissance 
then  progressing.  Nor  is  an  Irishman  grouped  among 
the  Scotch  and  Welsh  characters.  Nor  has  he  confessed 
his  convictions  in  matters  religious,  political,  or  social.  He 
honors  strong  kings  and  good  people,  cherishes  true  sym- 
pathy with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women  in 
their  struggle  against  the  ills  of  life,  and  through  his  least 
lovely  characters,  and  in  his  surface  vulgarity  at  its  worst,  he 
preaches  the  unvarying  gospel  of  duty  as  the  only  true  hap- 
piness. He  holds  the  mirror  up  to  myriad-sided  nature, 
without  caring  one  straw  whether  nature  enjoys  it  or  not. 
He  makes  us  see,  whether  we  want  to  see  or  not,  the  working 
of  .inexorable  law,  the  sure  penance  that  folly  and  evil  bring, 
and  he  has  no  compunction  about  illustrating  the  fall  of 
inscrutable  Fate's  blow  on  the  good  instead  of  the  wicked. 


356  LITERATURE   OF  AU<  NATIONS. 

In  it  all  he  detects  a  core  of  absurdity,  which  he  bids  us 
welcome  and  laugh  at,  as  a  relief.  And  above  this  mystery 
of  nature,  pain,  fate,  he  points  to  the  stars,  and  above  them 
the  silent  Power  that  moves  in  ways  mysterious  to  us,  who 
grope  in  the  dark.  Shakespeare's  endowment  was  so  vast, 
so  all-comprising,  that  the  world  sums  up  its  veneration  in 
his  own  phrase,  "  None  but  himself  can  be  his  parallel." 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

SCENE. — Capulef  s  garden. 

(Romeo,  belonging  to  the  Montague  family  of  Verona,  has  fallen 
in  love  with  Juliet,  of  the  family  of  the  Capulets,  with  whom  the 
Montagues  have  a  deadly  feud.  Romeo,  with  some  friends,  goes  to  the 
Capulets'  house.  Returning,  he  outran  his  companions,  climbed  the 
wall  of  Capulef  s  garden,  and  leaped  down  inside.) 

Romeo.  He  jests  at  scars,  that  never  felt  a  wound. — 

[Juliet  appears  above,  at  a  -window. 
But  soft !  what  light  through  j^onder  window  breaks  ? 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  ! 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid,  art  far  more  fair  than  she. 
It  is  my  lady :  O,  it  is  my  love : 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were  ! 

She  speaks,  yet  says  she  nothing  :  what  of  that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. 
I  am  too  bold,  'tis  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those  stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eyes  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night. 
See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek ! 

Juliet.  Ah  me! 

Romeo.  She  speaks : — 
O,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  357 

As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wond'ring  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Juliet.  O  Romeo,  Romeo !  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo  ? 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I'll  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Romeo.  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at  this?  [Aside. 

Juliet.  "Tis  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy  ; — 
Thou  art  thyself,  though  not  a  Montague. 
What's  Montague?  it  is  nor  hand  nor  foot, 
Nor  arm,  nor  face.     O  be  some  other  name  ! 
What's  in  a  name?  that  which  we  call  a  rose. 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd, 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes, 
Without  that  title. — Romeo,  doff  thy  name  ; 
And  for  thy  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself. 

Romeo.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word : 
Call  me  but  love,  and  I'll  be  new  baptized; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

Juliet.  What  man  art  thou,  that  thus  bescreen'd  in  night 
So  stutnblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Romeo.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am  ; 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee ; 
Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 

Juliet.  My  ears  have  yet  not  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  thy  tongue's  uttering,  yet  I  know  the  sound  ; 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ? 

Romeo.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  displease. 

Juliet.  How  cam'st  thou  hither,  tell  me?  and  wherefore? 
The  orchard  wall  is  high,  and  hard  to  climb  ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Romeo.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er-perch  these 
walls; 


358  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out : 

And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 

Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  stop  to  me. 

Juliet.  If  they  do  see  thee,  they  will  murder  thee. 

Romeo.  Alack !  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords ;  look  thou  but  sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Juliet.  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here. 

Romeo.  I  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from  their  eyes ; 
And,  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here ; 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate, 
Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love. 

Juliet.  By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place? 

Romeo.  By  love,  that  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire  ; 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  farthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 

Jtiliet.  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke.     But  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?     I  know  thou  wilt  say — Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word :  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     O  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or,  if  thou  think' st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond ; 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'havior  light: 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  overheard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware, 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore  pardon  me; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Romeo.  L,ady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear, 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops, — 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  359 

Juliet.  O,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  th'  inconstant  moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Romeo.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Juliet.  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  thee. 

Romeo.  If  my  heart's  dear  love — 

Juliet.  Well,  do  not  swear.     Although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  in  this  contract  to-night: 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say — It  lightens  !     Sweet,  good  night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 

\_Nurse  calls  within. 

Jtiliet.  I  hear  some  noise  within ;  dear  love,  adieu  ! 
Anon,  good  nurse ! — Sweet  Montague,  be  true, 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.  [Exit. 

Romeo.  O  blessed,  blessed  night !     I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial. 

Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Juliet.  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good  night  indeed. 
If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honorable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 
By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where,  and  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite ; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 
And  follow  thee  my  lord  throughout  the  world. 

Nurse  (within).  Madam. 

Juliet.  I  come,  anon: — But  if  thou  mean'st  not  well, 
I  do  beseech  thee — 

Nurse  (within}.  Madam. 

Juliet.  By  and  by,  I  come. — 
To  cease  thy  strife,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief: 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Romeo.  So  thrive  my  soul,— 


360  LITERATURE   OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

Juliet.  A  thousand  times  good-night !  [Exit. 

Romeo.  A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want  thy  light — 
I/Dve  goes  toward  love,  as  schoolboys  from  their  books ; 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy  looks. 

\Reiiring  slowly, 
Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Juliet.  Hist !  Romeo,  hist ! — O,  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Romeo  (returning).  It  is   my  soul,   that  calls  upon  my 

name: 

How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears ! 

Juliet.  Romeo. 

Romeo.  My  sweet ! 

Juliet.  What  o'clock  to-morrow 
Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Romeo.  By  the  hour  of  nine. 

Juliet.  I  will  not  fail :  'tis  twenty  year  till  then. 
I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 

Romeo.  Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  remember  it. 

Juliet.  I  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Rememb'ring  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Romeo.  And  I'll  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still  forget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

Juliet.  'Tis  almost  morning,  I  would  have  thee  gone: 
And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird  : 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Romeo.  I  would  I  were  thy  bird. 

Juliet.  Sweet,  so  would  I : 
Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 
Good  night,  good  night !  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow, 
That  I  shall  say  good  night,  till  it  be  morrow.  [Exit. 

Romeo.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,   peace  in  thy 

breast ! 
Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest  1 


ENGLISH   UTERATURE.  361 


THE  TOMB  OF  THE  CAPULETS. 

(Paris,  to  whom  Juliet  had  been  promised  in  marriage,  mourns 
her  death.  He  sends  his  page  to  watch  against  intrusion,  and  then 
scatters  flowers  before  the  door  of  the  tomb,  in  which  lies  Juliet,  sup- 
posed to  be  dead.) 

Paris.  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal  bed  I  strew, 
(O  woe  !  thy  canopy  is  dust  and  stones  !) 
Which  with  sweet  water  nightly  I  will  dew, 
Or,  wanting  that,  with  tears  distilled  by  moans : 
The  obsequies  that  I  for  thee  will  keep, 
Nightly  shall  be,  to  strew  thy  grave  and  weep. 

(The  boy  then  whistles  as  signal  of  some  one's  approach,  and  Paris 
retires.  Romeo  and  his  servant  Balthasar  enter  with  a  torch,  mattock, 
etc.  Romeo  having  given  Balthasar  a  letter  to  be  delivered  to  his 
father  the  next  morning,  commands  him,  on  pain  of  instant  death,  to 
leave  him.  Balthasar  promises  to  do  so,  but  resolves  to  wait  in  the 
neighborhood,  being  frightened  at  his  master's  looks.  Romeo  then 
proceeds  to  burst  open  the  tomb,  when  he  is  interrupted  by  Paris,  who 
believing  him  to  have  come  with  some  evil  intent,  rushes  upon  him 
and  endeavors  to  arrest  him.  Romeo,  after  praying  him  to  depart  and 
not  to  tempt  a  desperate  man,  is  compelled  to  draw  in  self-defence,  and 
after  a  short  combat  Paris  falls.  The  Page,  in  terror,  runs  to  call  the 
Watch.) 

Paris.  Oh,  I  am  slain  !  (falls). — If  thou  be  merciful, 
Open  the  tomb,  lay  me  with  Juliet  (dies). 

Romeo.  In  faith  I  will ; — L/et  me  peruse  this  face  ; 
Mercutio's  kinsman, — noble  county  Paris: 
What  said  my  man,  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode  ?     I  think 
He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet  ; 
Said  he  not  so  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  so  ? 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet, 
To  think  it  was  so  ? — Oh,  give  me  thy  hand, 
One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book ! 
I'll  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave, — 
A  grave  ?    Oh  no ;  a  lantern,  slaughtered  youth, 
For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light. 
Death,  lie  thou  there,  by  a  dead  man  interred. 

[Laying  Paris  in  the  monument. 


362  UTBRATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

How  oft  when  men  are  at  the  point  of  death 
Have  they  been  merry ;  which  their  keepers  call 
A  light'ning  before  death  :     Oh,  how  may  I 
Call  this  a  light'ning  ? — O  my  love  !   my  wife ! 
Death  that  hath  sucked  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty : 
Thou  art  not  conquered;  beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips  and  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there — 
Ah  dear  Juliet, 

Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  ? — Byes,  look  your  last — 
Arms,  take  your  last  embrace  !  and  lips,  O  you 
The  doors  of  breath  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss, 
A  dateless  bargain  to  engrossing  death ! — 
Come,  bitter  conduct — come,  unsavory  guide ! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark ! 
Here's  to  my  love  !  (drinks}  O  true  apothecary ; 
Thy  drugs  are  quick.     Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die  (dies). 

(Friar  Laurence  enters  at  the  other  end  of  the  churchyard  with  a 
lantern,  crow  and  spade.  The  Friar,  stumbling  along,  conies  upon 
Balthasar,  who  tells  him  that  Romeo  is  already  at  the  tomb,  on  which 
he  hastens  forward.) 

Friar.  Fear  comes  upon  me. 
Oh,  much  I  fear  some  ill,  unlucky  thing. 
Alack,  alack,  what  blood  is  this,  which  stains 
The  stony  entrance  of  this  sepulchre  ? 
What  mean  these  masterless  and  gory  swords 
To  lie  discolored  by  this  place  of  peace  ? 
Romeo  !     Oh,  pale  ! — Who  else  ?    What,  Paris  too  ? 
And  steeped  in  blood  ? — Ah,  what  an  unkind  hour 
Is  guilty  of  this  lamentable  chance  ! — 
The  lady  stirs.  [Juliet  wakes  and  stirs. 

Juliet.  O  comfortable  friar  !  where  is  my  lord  ? 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be, 
And  there  I  am  :  where  is  my  Romeo?  [Noise  within. 

Friar.  I  hear  some  noise. — Lady,  come  from  that  nest 
Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep ; 
A  greater  power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents.     Come, — come  away: 
Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  there  lies  dead ; 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  363 

And  Paris  too.     Come,  I'll  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns : 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming ; 
Come,  go,  good  Juliet — (noise  again}.     I  dare  no  longer 
stay.  [Exit. 

Juliet.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  for  I  will  not  away. 
What's  here?  a  cup,  closed  in  my  true  love's  hand  ! 
Poison,  I  see,  has  been  his  timeless  end : 
O  churl !  drink  all ;  and  left  no  friendly  drop 
To  help  me  after  ?     I  will  kiss  thy  lips ; 
Haply  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them, 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative.  [Kisses  him. 

Thy  lips  are  warm  ! 


ist  Watch  (within).  Lead,  boy!     Which  way? 
Juliet.  Yea,  noise? — then  I'll  be  brief. — O  happy  dagger! 

[Snatching  Romeo's  dagger. 

This  is  thy  sheath ;  (stabs  herself}  there  rust  and  let  me 
die.  [Falls  on  Romeo1  s  bod}  and  dies. 

(The  Watch  enters  and,  finding  the  dead  bodies,  send  at  once  for 
the  Prince,  while  others  search  the  churchyard,  and  presently  bring  in 
Balthasar  and  the  Friar.  The  Prince  arrives  shortly  after,  with  Capu- 
let,  Lady  Capulet,  and  Montague,  Lady  Montague  having  died  that 
night  through  grief  at  her  son's  exile.  The  whole  story  is  then  un- 
folded by  the  Friar,  Balthasar  and  the  Page.) 


364  LITERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

Prince.  Where  be  these  enemies  ?    Capulet !    Montague  ] 
See  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  heaven  finds  means  to  kill  your  joys  with  love  ; 
And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen  :  all  are  punished. 

Capulet.  O  brother  Montague,  give  me  thy  hand. 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure,  for  no  more 
Can  I  demand. 

Montague.  But  I  can  give  thee  more : 
For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold  ; 
That  while  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  that  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

Capulet.  As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  his  lady  lie ; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity  ! 

Prince.  A  gloomy  peace  this  morning  with  it  brings ; 

The  sun  for  sorrow  will  not  show  his  head. 
Go  hence,  to  have  more  talk  of  these  sad  things ; 

Some  shall  be  pardoned,  and  some  punished : 
For  never  was  a  story  of  more  woe 
Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo. 

THE  POUND  OF  FLESH. 

(From  "The  Merchant  of  Venice.") 
SCENE. — A  Court  of  Justice  in  Venice. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  court. 

Salanio.  He  is  ready  at  the  door :  he  comes,  my  lord. 

[Enter  Sky  lock 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face. 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then  'tis  thought 
Thou' It  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse,  more  strange, 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty; 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh, 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 
But,  touched  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 


ENGLISH  UTERATURE.  365 

That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 
Know  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy  lock.  I  have  possessed  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose ; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats :  I'll  not  answer  that: 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humor:  is  it  answered? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answered  yet  ? 

Bassanio.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shylock.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer. 

Bassanio.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

Shylock.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them ; — I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rendering  none  ? 

Shylock.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchased  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs  and  mules 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them :  shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burthens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  seasoned  with  such  viands  ?    You  will  answer 
' '  The  slaves  are  ours :  "  so  do  I  answer  you : 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him, 
Is  dearly  bought ;  'tis  mine,  and  I  will  have  it. 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice. 
I  stand  for  judgment:  answer:  shall  I  have  it? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power  I  may  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 


366  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

A  messenger  appears  with  a  letter  from  Bellario,  stating  that  he 
cannot  come,  but  sends  a  young  doctor  Balthasar  in  his  stead. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learned  Bellario,  what  he  writes : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. 

\_Enter  Portia ,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 
Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

Portia.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome :  take  your  place. 
Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

Portia.  I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Portia.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shylock.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Portia.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow ; 
Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you  as  you  do  proceed. 
\_To  Antonio~\  You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not? 

Antonio.  Aye,  so  he  says. 

Portia.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Antonio.  I  do. 

Portia.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shylock.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

Portia.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained, 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath ;  it  is  twice  blest  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest :  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy; 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  367 

And  that  same  prayer  dotli  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea, 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy  lock.  My  deeds  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Portia.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bassanio.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority: 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong, 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Portia.  It  must  not  be ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent, 
And  many  an  error  by  the  same  example 
Will  rush  into  the  state :  it  cannot  be. 

Shy  lock.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel : 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  I  do  honor  thee ! 

Portia.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy  lock.  Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

Portia.    Shylock,   there's  thrice  thy   money   offered 
thee. 

Shylock.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven: 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Portia.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit  ; 
And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart.     Be  merciful : 
Take  thrice  thy  money;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shylock.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor. 
It  doth  appear  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 
You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment:  by  my  soul  I  swear 


368 


LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 


There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me :  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Antonio.  Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

Portia.     Why    then, 

thus  it  is : 

You  must  prepare  your 
bosom  for  his  knife. 
Shy  lock.      O     noble 
judge!  O  excellent 
young  man ! 
Portia.  For  the  intent 
and  purpose  of  the 
law, 
Hath  full  relation  to  the 

penalty 

Which  here  appeareth 
due  upon  the  bond. 
Shy  lock.      '  Tis     very 
true :    O  wise  and 
upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Portia.  Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shy  lock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 
Shy  lock.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 
Portia.  It  is  not  so  expressed :  but  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 
Shy  lock.  I  cannot  find  it :  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 
Portia.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to  say  ? 
Antonio.  But  little :  I  am  armed  and  well  prepared. 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio :  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I'll  pay  it  instantly  wdth  all  my  heart. 

Bassanio.  Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife  [Portia], 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself  ; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteemed  above  thy  life : 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  369 

Portia.  Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that, 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Shylock.  We  trifle  time  :  I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

Portia.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine : 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shylock.  Most  rightful  judge! 

Portia.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast  : 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shylock.  Most  learned  judge  !  A  sentence!  Come,  prepare! 

Portia.  Tarry  a  little ;  there  is  something  else. 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  "a  pound  of  flesh." 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gratiano.  O  upright  judge  !  Mark,  Jew:  O  learned  judge  ! 

Shylock.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Portia.  Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 
For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 

Gratiano.  O  learned  judge!  Mark,  Jew:  a  learned  judge! 

Shylock.  I  take  this  offer,  then ;  pay  the  bond  thrice 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bassanio.  Here  is  the  money. 

Portia.  Soft ! 

The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice;  soft !  no  haste: 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gratiano.  O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

Portia.  Therefore  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood,  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, — 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh :  if  thou  tak'st  more 
Or  less  than  a  just  pound,  be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light  or  heavy  in  the  substance, 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple, — nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gratiano.  A  second  Daniel, — a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now  infidel,  I  hav«  thee  on  the  hip. 

Portia.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  forfeiture. 

TV— 24 


370  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Shylc'.k.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

JBassanio.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;   here  it  is. 

Portia.  He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court : 
He  shall  have  merely  justice  and  his  bond. 

Gratiano.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I,  a  second  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shylock.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

Portia.  Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew, 

Shylock.  Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

Portia.  Tarry,  Jew : 
The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, 
If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive 
Shall  seize  one-half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurred 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Portia.  Ay,  for  the  state,  not  for  Antonio. 

Shylock.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all ;  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

Portia.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Antonio.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke  and  all  the  court 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one-half  of  his  goods ; 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  371 

I  am  content,  so  lie  will  let  me  have 

The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 

Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 

That  lately  stole  his  daughter. 

Two  things  provided  more, — that,  for  this  favor, 

He  presently  become  a  Christian  ; 

The  other  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 

Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possessed, 

Unto  his  son  I^orenzo  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this,  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Portia.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew?  what  dost  thou  say? 

Shylock.  I  am  content. 

Portia.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shylock.  I  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence ; 
I  am  not  well ;  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it.  {Exit  Shylock. 

HAMLET  AND  OPHELIA. 

Hamlet.  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question: — 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune ; 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  ? — To  die, — to  sleep, — 
No  more ; — and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heartache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die ; — to  sleep ; — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream ; — aye,  there's  the  rub: 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause :  There's  the  respect, 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life ; 


372 


LITERATURE;  OP  AU,  NATIONS. 


But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveler  returns, — puzzles  the 

will  ; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those 

ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know 

not  of ! 

Thus    conscience   does 
make  cowards  of  us 
all; 
And    thus    the    native 

hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the 
pale  cast  of  thought  ; 
And  enterprises  of  great 

pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their 

currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  ac- 
tion.— Soft  you  now  ! 
The     fair     Ophelia  !— 
Nymph,  in  thy  ori- 
sons 

Be  all  my  sins  remem- 
bered. 

Ophelia.  Good  my  lord, 
How  does  your  honor  for  this  many  a  day  ? 
Ham.  I  humbty  thank  you ;  well,  well,  well. 
Oph.  My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours, 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver  ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  not  I ; 
I  never  gave  you  aught. 

Oph.  My  honored  lord,  I  know  right  well,  you  did; 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  composed 
As  made  the  things  more  rich :  their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind, 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor,  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha  !  are  you  honest  ? 
Oph.  My  lord? 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  373 

Ham.  Are  you  fair  ? 

Oph.  What  means  your  lordship  ? 

Ham.  That  if  you  be  honest  and  fair,  your  honesty  should 
admit  no  discourse  to  your  beauty. 

Oph.  Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have  better  commerce  than  with 
honesty  ? 

Ham.  Aye,  truly ;  for  the  power  of  beauty  will  sooner  trans- 
form honesty  from  what  it  is  to  a  bawd,  than  the  force  of  honesty 
can  translate  beauty  into  his  likeness;  this  was  sometime  a  para- 
dox, but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.  I  did  love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed  me :  for  virtue  cannot  so 
inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it :  I  loved  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery;  why  wouldst  thou  be  a  breeder 
of  sinners?  I  am  myself  indifferent  honest;  but  yet  I  could 
accuse  me  of  such  things,  that  it  were  better,  my  mother  had  not 
borne  me:  I  am  very  proud,  revengeful,  ambitious;  with  more 
offences  at  my  beck,  than  I  have  thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagi- 
nation to  give  them  shape,  or  time  to  act  them  in :  what  should 
such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between  earth  and  heaven  !  We 
are  arrant  knaves,  all ;  believe  none  of  us :  go  thy  ways  to  a 
nunnery.  Where's  your  father  ? 

Oph.     At  home,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I^et  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him ;  that  he  may  play  the 
fool  nowhere  but  in  's  ovv'n  house.  Farewell. 

Oph.  O,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens  ! 

Ham.  If  thou  dost  marry,  I'll  give  thee  this  plague  for  thy 
dowry  :  be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not 
escape  calumny.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery ;  farewell.  Or,  if  thou 
wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a  fool;  for  wise  men  know  well  enough, 
what  monsters  you  make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery,  go;  and 
quickly  too.  Farewell. 

Oph.  O  Heavenly  powers,  restore  him  ! 

Ham.  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too,  well  enough ;  God 
hath  given  you  one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves  another :  you 
jig,  you  amble  and  you  lisp,  and  nick-name  God's  creatures,  and 
make  your  wantonness  your  ignorance :  go  to;  I'll  no  more  on't; 
it  hath  made  me  mad.  I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages : 
those  that  are  married  already,  all  but  one,  shall  live;  the  rest 
shall  keep  as  the}'-  are.  To  a  nunnery,  go.  \Exit  Hamlet. 

Oph.  Oh,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown  ! 


374  LITERATURE  OP  AI,I<  NATIONS. 

The  courtier's,  scholar's,  soldier's,  eye,  tongue,  sword; 

The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 

The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 

The  observed  of  all  observers !  quite,  quite  down  ! 

And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 

That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 

Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 

Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh; 

That  unmatched  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth, 

Blasted  with  ecstasy :  O,  woe  is  me ! 

To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see ! 


OTHELLO  AND  DESDEMONA. 
SCENE. — A  Bedchamber :  Desdemona  in  bed  asleep. 

Othello.  It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul, — 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars  ! 
It  is  the  cause. — Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood ; 
Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster.  \Takes  off  his  sword. 


Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then — put  out  the  light: 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent  me : — but  once  put  out  thy  light, 

Xhou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  375 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat, 

That  can  thy  light  relunie.     When  I  have  pluck'd  thy  rose, 

I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 

It  needs  must  wither : — I'll  smell  thee  on  the  tree.  \Kissingher. 

0  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her  sword  ! — One  more,  one  more. — 
Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee, 
And  love  thee  after: — One  more,  and  that's  the  last: 
So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     I  must  weep, 

But  they  are  cruel  tears :  this  sorrow's  heavenly; 
It  strikes  where  it  doth  love. — She  wakes. — 

Desdemona.   Who's  there?  Othello? 

Oth.  Aye,  Desdemona. 

Des.  Will  you  come  to  bed,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  Have  you  prayed  to-night,  Desdemoua  ? 

Des.  Aye,  my  lord. 

Oth.  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime, 
Unreconciled  as  yet  to  heaven  and  grace, 
Solicit  for  it  straight. 

Des.  Alack,  my  lord,  what  may  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Oth.  Well,  do  it,  and  be  brief;  I  will  walk  by: 

1  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit ; 

No, — Heaven  forfend  ! — I  would  not  kill  thy  soul. 

Des.  Talk  you  of  killing  ? 

Oth.  Aye,  I  do. 

Des.  Then,  heaven 
Have  mercy  on  me ! 

Oth.  Amen,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Des.  If  you  say  so,  I  hope  you  will  not  kill  me. 

Oth.  Humph! 

Des.  And  yet  I  fear  you :  for  you  are  fatal  then, 
When  your  eyes  roll  so :  why  I  should  fear,  I  know  not, 
Since  guiltiness  I  know  not ;  but  yet  I  feel  I  fear. 

Oth.  Think  on  thy  sins. 

Des.  They  are  loves  I  bear  to  you. 

Oth.  Aye,  and  for  that  thou  diest. 

Des.  That  death's  unnatural,  that  kills  for  loving. 
Alas,  why  gnaw  you  so  your  nether  lip  ? 
Some  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  frame : 
These  are  portents ;  but  yet  I  hope,  I  hope, 
They  do  not  point  on  me. 

Oth.  Peace,  and  be  still ! 


376  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Des.  I  will  so.     What's  the  matter  ? 

Oth.  That  handkerchief,  which  I  so  loved,  and  gave  thee, 
Thou  gav'st  to  Cassio. 

Des.  No,  by  my  life  and  soul ; 
Send  for  the  man  and  ask  him. 

Oth.  Sweet  soul,  take  heed, 
Take  heed  of  perjury;  thou'rt  on  thy  death  bed. 

Des.  Aye,  but  not  yet  to  die. 

Oth.  Yes,  presently: 

Therefore  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin ; 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath 
Cannot  remove,  nor  choke,  the  strong  conception 
That  I  do  groan  withal.     Thou  art  to  die. 

Des.  O  Heaven  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

Oth.  I  say,  amen. 

Des.  And  have  you  mercy  too  ! — I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life ;  never  loved  Cassio, 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  heaven 
As  I  might  love.     I  never  gave  him  token. 

Oth.  By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handkerchief  in  's  hand. 

0  perjured  woman !  thou  dost  stone  my  heart, 
And  mak'st  me  call,  what  I  intend  to  do, 

A  murder,  which  I  thought  a  sacrifice :  * 

1  saw  the  handkerchief. 
Des.  He  found  it  then ; 

I  never  gave  it  him : — Send  for  him  hither, 
!Let  him  confess  a  truth. 

Oth.  He  hath  confessed. 

Des.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  That  he  hath— used  thee. 

Des.  How?  unlawfully? 

Oth.  Aye. 

Des.  He  will  not  say  so. 

Oth.  No,  his  mouth  is  stopped ; 
Honest  lago  hath  ta'en  order  for't. 

Des.  My  fear  interprets  then, — What,  is  he  dead  ? 

Oth.  Had  all  his  hairs  been  lives,  my  great  revenge 
Had  stomach  for  them  all. 

Des.  Alas !  he  is  betray 'd,  and  I  undone. 

Oth.  Out,  strumpet !     Weep'st  thou  for  him  to  my  face? 

Des.  Oh,  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not. 
*  An  expiation. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  377 

Oth.  Down,  strumpet ! 

Des.  Kill  me  to-morrow  ;  let  me  live  to-night. 

Oth.  Nay,  if  you  strive, 

Des.  But  half  an  hour. 

Oth.  Being  done, 
There  is  no  pause. 

Des.  But  while  I  say  one  prayer. 

Oth.  It  is  too  late.  \He  smothers  her. 

Emilia  (within).     My  lord,  my  lord !  what  ho  !  my  lord ! 
my  lord ! 

Oth.  What  noise  is  this  ? — Not  dead  ?  not  yet  quite  dead  ? 
I,  that  am  cruel,  am  yet  merciful ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  linger  in  thy  pain. — 
So,  so. 

Emil.  (within}.  What  ho  !  my  lord  !  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  Who's  there? 

Emil.  (within).  O  good  my  lord,  I  would  speak  a  word 
with  you. 

Oth.  Yes; — 'tis  Emilia: — by-and-by. — She's  dead. 
JTis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death: 
The  noise  was  high. — Ha !  no  more  moving  ? 
Still  as  the  grave.     Shall  she  come  in  ?     Were't  good? 
I  think  she  stirs  again: — No — What's  best  to  do? 
If  she  come  in,  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife: 
My  wife  !  my  wife!  what  wife  ? — I  have  no  wife : 
O  insupportable  !  O  heavy  hour  ! 
Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 
Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 
Did  yawn  at  alteration. 

Emil.  (within).  I  do  beseech  you  I  may  speak  with  you, 
O  good  my  lord. 

Oth.  I  had  forgot  thee:  Oh,  come  in,  Emilia: — 
Soft, — by-and-by: — Let  me  the  curtains  draw. — 
Where  art  thou  ?    What's  the  matter  with  thee  now  ? 

[  Unlocks  the  door. 
Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  O  good  my  lord,  yonder' s  foul  murder  done. 

Oth.  What?  now? 

Emil.  But  now,  my  lord. 

Oth.  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon  ; 
She  comes  more  nearer  earth  than  she  was  wont, 
And  makes  men  mad. 


378  LITERATURE  OF  ALT,  NATIONS. 

Emit.  Cassio,  my  lord,  has  killed  a  young  Venetian, 
Called  Roderigo. 

Oth.  Roderigo  killed ! 
And  Cassio  killed  ? 

Emil.  No,  Cassio  is  not  killed. 

Oth.  Not  Cassio  killed  ?     Then  murder's  out  of  tune, 
And  sweet  revenge  grows  harsh. 

Des.  Oh,  falsely,  falsely  murdered  ! 

Emil.  Alas  !  what  cry  is  that  ? 

Oth.  That!  what? 

EmiL  Out,  and  alas  !  that  was  my  lady's  voice: — 
Help  !  help,  ho  !  help  ! — O  lady,  speak  again  ! 
Sweet  Desdemona  !     O  sweet  mistress,  speak  ! 

Des.  A  guiltless  death  I  die. 

EmiL  Oh,  who  hath  done 
This  deed  ? 

Des.  Nobody;  I  myself ;  farewell: 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord.     Oh,  farewell.  \Dies. 

Oth.  Why,  how  should  she  be  murdered? 

EmiL  Alas,  who  knows  ? 

Oth.  You  heard  her  say  herself,  it  was  not  I. 

EmiL  She  said  so ;  I  must  needs  report  the  truth. 

Oth.  She's,  like  a  liar,  gone  to  burning  hell; 
'Twas  I  that  killed  her. 

EmiL  Oh,  the  more  angel  she, 
And  you  the  blacker  devil ! 

Oth.  She  turned  to  folly,  and  she  was  a  whore. 

EmiL  Thou  dost  belie  her,  and  thou  art  a  devil. 

Oth.  She  was  false  as  water. 

EmiL  Thou  art  rash  as  fire,  to  say 
That  she  was  false ;  Oh,  she  was  heavenly  true  ! 

Oth.  Thy  husband  knew  it  all. 

Emil.  My  husband  ? 

Oth.  Thy  husband. 

EmiL  That  she  was  false  to  wedlock  ? 

Oth.  Aye,  with  Cassio. 
Nay,  had  she  been  true, 

If  heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 
I'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

EmiL  My  husband  ? 

Oth.  Aye,  'twas  he  that  told  me  on  her  first; 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  379 

An  honest  man  he  is,  and  hates  the  slime 
That  sticks  on  filthy  deeds. 
Emil.  My  husband  ? 

Oth.  What  needs  this  iterance,  woman?  I  say,  thy  husband. 
Emil.    O  mistress,  villany  hath  made  mocks  with 

love ! — 
My  husband  say,  that  she  was  false  ? 

Oth.  He,  woman ; 
I  say,  thy  husband:    Dost  understand  the 

word? 

My  friend,  thy  husband,  honest,  honest  lago. 
Emil.  If  he  say  so,  may  his  pernicious 

soul 

Rot  half  a  grain  a  day  !  he  lies  to  the  heart. 
Oth.  Ha! 

Emil.  Do  thy  worst. 
This   deed   of    thine  is    no    more  worthy 

heaven, 

Than  thou  wast  worthy  her. 
Oth.  Peace,  you  were  best. 
Emil.  Thou  hast  not  half  the  power  to  do 

me  harm, 

As  I  have  to  be  hurt.     O  gull !  O  dolt ! 
As  ignorant  as  dirt !  thou'st  done  a  deed, — 
I  care  not  for  thy  sword ;  I'll  make  thee  known, 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives : — Help  !  help  !  ho  !  help ! 
The  Moor  has  killed  my  mistress.     Murder !  murder ! 

LEAR  AND  CORDELIA. 
SCENE. — A  Tent  in  the  French  Camp.     Lear  on  a  bed,  asleep. 

Cordelia.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live  and  work, 
To  match  thy  goodness  ?     My  life  will  be  too  short, 
And  every  measure  fail  me. 

Kent.  To  be  acknowledged,  madam,  is  o'erpaid. 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth ; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipped,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours ; 
I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon,  dear  madam ; 
Yet  to  be  known  shortens  my  made  intent : 


380  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

My  boon  I  make  it  that  you  know  me  not 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

Cor.  Then  be  't  so,  my  good  lord. — How  does  the  king? 

Physician.  Madam,  sleeps  still. 

Cor.  O  you  kind  gods, 

Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature ! 
The  untuned  and  jarring  senses,  Oh,  wind  up 
Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Phys.  So  please  your  majesty, 
That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  he  hath  slept  long. 

Cor.  Be  governed  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  arrayed  ? 

Gentleman.  Aye,  madam ;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep, 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him  ; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 
Please  you,  draw  near. — Louder  the  music  there. 

Cor.  O  my  dear  father !  Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess ! 

Cor.  Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
Had  challenged  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  opposed  against  the  jarring  winds? 
To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder  ? 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross  lightning?  to  watch,  (poor  perdu  !) 
With  this  thin  helm  ?     Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire.     And  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine  and  rogues  forlorn, 
In  short  and  musty  straw  ?     Alack,  alack  ! 
'Tis  wonder  that  thy  life  and  writs  at  once 
Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 

Phys.  Madam,  do  you;  'tis  fittest. 

Cor.  How  does  my  royal  lord ?    How  fares  your  majesty? 

Lear.  You  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave : — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  381 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know ;  when  did  you  die  ? 

Cor.  Still,  still,  far  wide ! 

Phys.  He's  scarce  awake :  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear.  Where  have  I  been? — Where  arn  I  ? — Fair  daylight — 
I  am  mightily  abused. — I  should  e'en  die  with  pity, 
To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands: — let's  see; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.     Would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.  O  look  upon  me,  sir, 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me: — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward ;  not  an  hour  more  or  less ; 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man : 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garment ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Do  not  laugh  at  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.  Be  your  tears  wet  ?    Yes  'faith.     I  pray,  weep  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong. 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.  Am  I  in  France  ? 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.  Do  not  abuse  me. 

Phys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam :  the  great  rage, 
You  see,  is  killed  in  him:  and  yet  't  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in ;  trouble  him  no  more, 
Till  further  settling. 

Cor.  Will't  please  your  highness  walk  ? 

Lear.  You  must  bear  with  me : 
Pray  now,  forget  and  forgive :  I  am  old  and  foolish.  \_Exeunt. 


382  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 

SCENE. — The  British  Camp  near  Dover. 
Enter  Edmund  with  Lear  and  Cordelia  as  Prisoners. 

Edmund.  Some  officers  take  them  away :  good  guard ; 
Until  their  greater  pleasures  first  be  known, 
That  are  to  censure  them. 

Cor.  We  are  not  the  first, 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurred  the  worst. 
For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down ; 
Myself  could  else  out- frown  false  fortune's  frown. 
Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters  and  these  sisters  ? 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no  !     Come,  let's  away  to  prison: 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage ; 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness.     So  we'll  live, 
And  pray  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news ;  and  we'll  talk  with  them  too, — 
Who  loses  and  who  wins;  who's  in,  who's  out; — 
And  take  upon  us  all  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies:  and  we'll  wear  out, 
In  a  walled  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones, 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm.  Take  them  away. 

Lear.  Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.    Have  I  caught  thee  ? 
He  that  parts  us  shall  bring  a  brand  from  heaven, 
And  fire  us  hence,  like  foxes.     Wipe  thine  eyes ! 

ROSALIND. 
SCENE. — The  Forest. 

Duke.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orlando.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not : 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 

Enter  Rosalind  (in  "male  attire),  Sylvius  and  Phebe. 

Ros.  Patience  once  more,  while  our  compact  is  urged : 
You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,  \_To  the  Duke. 

You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with  her. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  383 

Ros.  And  you  say  you  will  have  her  when  I  bring  her  ? 

\To  Orlando. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 

Ros.  You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing?  \ToPhebe. 

Phebe.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 

Ros.  But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ? 

Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 

\_To  Sylvius. 

Syl.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one  thing. 

Ros.  I  have  promised  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daughter  ;— 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter ; — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd : — 
Keep  your  word,  Sylvius,  that  you'll  marry  her, 
If  she  refuse  me : — and  from  hence  I  go 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even.     [Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Duke.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor. 

Or!.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter ; 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born, 
And  hath  been  tutor'  d  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Jaques.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these  couples 
are  coming  to  the  ark  !  Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange  beasts, 
which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 

Touchstone.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome:  this  is  the  motley- 
minded  gentleman  that  I  have  so  often  met  in  the  forest ;  he  hath 
been  a  courtier,  he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my  purga- 
tion. I  have  trod  a  measure ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady ;  I  have 
been  politic  with  my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy ;  I  have 
undone  three  tailors ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have 
fought  one. 


384  LITERATURE   OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Jaq.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  'Faith  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon  the 
seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  did  you  find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed.  Bear  your  body 
more  seeming,  Audrey :  as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a 
certain  courtier's  beard;  he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was 
not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was.  This  is  called  the  Retort 
courteous.  If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he 
would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself.  This  is  called 
the  Quip  modest.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my 
judgment.  This  is  called  the  Reply  churlish.  If  again,  it  was 
not  well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true.  This  is  called 
the  Reproof  valiant.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  say, 
I  lie.  This  is  called  the  Countercheck  quarrelsome :  and  so  to  the 
Lie  circumstantial,  and  the  Lie  direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not  well  cut  ? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  circumstantial,  nor 
he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  direct :  and  so  we  measured  swords 
and  parted. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord?  He's  as  good  at  any- 
thing, and  yet  a  fool. 

Enter  Hymen,  leading  Rosalind  (in  female  attire")  and  Celia. 

Hym.  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  Duke,  receive  thy  daughter, 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither ; 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his, 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  \To  Duke. 

To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  \To  Orlando. 

Duke.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  daughter. 

Orl.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 

Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why  then, — my  love,  adieu ! 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he :  \To  Duke. 

I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he :  \To  Orlando. 

Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she.  \_T&  Phebe. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  385 

Hym.   Peace,  ho  !  I  bar  confusion : 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 
Of  these  most  strange  events : 
Here's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents, 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part 

[  To  Orlando  and  Rosalind. 

You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart :  [  To  Oliver  and  Celia. 
You  \To  Phebe\  to  his  love  must  accord. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord : 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[  To  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning  ; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

Song. 
Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown; 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed ! 
'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honored : 
Honor,  high  honor  and  renown, 

To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town ! 


FALSTAFF  AND  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 

AFTER  Shakespeare  had  made  Sir  John  Falstaff  a  popular  though 
ludicrous  character  in  his  historical  plays,  Queen  Elizabeth  is  said  to 
have  requested  that  he  present  Falstaff  in  love.  The  result  was  "  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  in  which  the  fun  was  still  more  farcical. 

SCENE. — A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge,  we  must  be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John  and  Robert,  be 
ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brewhouse ;  and  when  I  suddenly  call 
you,  come  forth,  and  (without  any  pause,  or  staggering)  take  this 
basket  on  your  shoulders  :  that  done,  trudge  with  it  in  all  haste, 
and  carry  it  among  the  bleachers  in  Datchet  mead,  and  there 
empty  it  in  the  muddy  ditch,  close  by  the  Thames  side. 
iv— 25 


386  LITERATURE  OF  AIJ,  NATIONS. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  will  do  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  ha'   told  them  over  and  over ;    they  lack    no 
direction.     Begone,  and  come  when  you  are  called. 

\_Exeunt  Servants. 
Mrs.  Page.  Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter  Robin. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket?*  what  news  with  you  ? 
Robin.  My  master  Sir  John  is  come  in  at  your  back-door,  mis- 
tress Ford,  and  requests  your  company.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou'rt  a 
good  boy ;  this  secrecy  of 
thine  shalt  be  a  tailor  to 
thee,  and  shall  make  thee 
a  new  doublet  and  hose. — 
I'll  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Do  so  : — Go, 
tell  thy  master  I  am  alone. 
[Exeunt  Robin  and 
Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to,  then  ; 
we'll  use  this  unwholesome 
humidity,  this  gross  watery 
pumpion ; — we'  11  teach  him 
to  know  turtles  [doves] 
from  jays. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Falstaff.  Have  I  caught 
thee,  my  heavenly  jewel? 
Why,  now  let  me  die,  for  I 
have  lived  long  enough; 
this  is  the  period  of  my 
ambition.  O  this  blessed 
hour! 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  sweet  Sir 
John. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I 
cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate,  mistress  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in 
my  wish :  I  would  thy  husband  were  dead.  I'll  speak  it  before 
the  best  lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

*  A  3roung  small  hawk. 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  387 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John !  alas,  I  should  be  a  pitiful 
lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another.  I  see 
how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond.  Thou  hast  the  right 
arched  bent  of  the  brow,  that  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire- 
valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian  fashion. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John :  my  brows  become 
nothing  else ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  tyrant  to  say  so:  thou  wouldst  make  an 
absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of  thy  foot  would  give  an 
excellent  motion  to  thy  gait,  in  a  semicircled  farthingale.  I  see 
what  thou  wert,  if  Fortune  thy  foe  were  not ;  Nature  is  thy  friend : 
Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  in  me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade  thee  there's 
something  extraordinary  in  thee.  Come,  I  cannot  cog,  and  say, 
thou  art  this  and  that,  like  a  many  of  these  lisping  hawthorn- 
buds,  that  come  like  women  in  men's  apparel,  and  smell  like 
Bucklersbury  in  simple-time ;  I  cannot :  but  I  love  thee ;  none 
but  thee ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir;  I  fear  you  love  mistress 
Page. 

Fal.  Thou  mightst  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk  by  the  Counter- 
gate  [the  prison]  ;  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the  reek  of  a  lime- 
kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  you ;  and  you  shall 
one  day  find  it. 

Fal.  Keep  in  that  mind;  I'll  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do ;  or  else  I  could 
not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  \within\.  Mistress  Ford,  mistress  Ford;  here's  mistress 
Page  at  the  door,  sweating  and  blowing,  and  looking  wildly,  and 
would  needs  speak  with  you  presently. 

Fal.  She  shall  not  see  me;  I  will  ensconce  me  behind  the 
arras. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so ;  she's  a  very  tattling  woman. 

\Falstaff  hides  himself. 

Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 

What's  the  matter?  how  now? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  mistress  Ford,  what  have  you  done  ?  You  arc 
shamed,  you  are  overthrown,  you  are  undone  for  ever. 


388  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What's  the  matter,  good  mistress  Page? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford  !  having  an  honest 
man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such  cause  of  suspicion  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion?— Out  upon  you!  how 
am  I  mistook  in  you  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  alas  !  what's  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither,  woman,  with  all 
the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for  a  gentleman,  that,  he  says, 
is  here  now  in  the  house,  by  your  consent,  to  take  an  ill  advan- 
tage of  his  absence.  You  are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford  \Aside~\.  'Tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you  have  such  a 
man  here ;  but  'tis  most  certain  your  husband's  coming,  with 
half  Windsor  at  his  heels,  to  search  for  such  a  one.  I  come 
before  to  tell  you.  If  you  know  yourself  clear,  why  I  am  glad  of 
it :  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey,  convey  him  out. 
Be  not  amazed  ;  call  all  your  senses  to  you  ;  defend  your  reputa- 
tion, or  bid  farewell  to  your  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ? — There  is  a  gentleman,  my  dear 
friend  ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own  shame,  so  much  as  his  peril :  I 
had  rather  than  a  thousand  pound,  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame,  never  stand  you  had  rather,  and  you 
had  rather ;  your  husband's  here  at  hand,  bethink  you  of  some 
conveyance:  in  the  house  you  cannot  hide  him. — Oh,  how  have 
you  deceived  me  ! — I/>ok,  here  is  a  basket ;  if  he  be  of  any  rea- 
sonable stature,  he  may  creep  in  here  ;  and  throw  foul  linen  upon 
him,  as  if  it  were  going  to  bucking ;  or,  it  is  whiting-time,  send 
him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet  mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  too  big  to  go  in  there  :  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Re-enter  Fal staff. 

Fal.  I^et  me  see't,  let  me  see't !  Oh,  let  me  see't !  I'll  in,  I'll 
in  ; — follow  your  friend's  counsel ; — I'll  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  Sir  John  Falstaff !  Are  these  your  letters, 
knight  ? 

Fal.  I  love  thee.  Help  me  away  ;  let  me  creep  in  here  ;  I'll 
never — 

\He  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him  with  foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy :  Call  your  men, 
mistress  Ford. — You  dissembling  knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John,  Robert,  John  !  [Exit  Robin;  re-enter 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


389 


servants.']  Go,  take  up  these  clothes  here,  quickly.  Where's  the 
cowl-staff?  look,  how  you  drumble  :*  carry  them  to  the  laundress 
in  Datchet  mead  ;  quickly,  come. 


Enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without  cause,  why 
then  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I  deserve  it. — 
How  now  ?  whither  bear  you  this  ? 

Serv.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs. Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear  it? 
You  were  best  meddle  with  buckwashing. 

Ford.  Buck  ?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the  buck !  Buck, 
buck,  buck  ?  Ay,  buck  ;  I  warrant  you  buck  ;  and  of  the  season, 
too,  it  shall  appear.  [Exeunt  Servants  with  the  basket.]  Gentle- 
men, I  have  dreamed  to-night ;  I'll  tell  you  my  dream.  Here, 
here,  here  be  my  keys  :  ascend  my  chambers,  search,  seek,  find 
out :  I'll  warrant,  we'll  unkennel  the  fox.  I^et  me  stop  this  way 
first : — So,  now  uncape.f 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented ;  you  wrong  yourself 
too  much. 

Ford.  True,  master  Page.  Up,  gentlemen;  you  shall  see 
sport  anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit. 


*  Drone. 


f  Unbag  the  fox. 


39O  LITERATURE  OF  AU,  NATIONS. 

Eva.  This  is  fery  fantastical  humors  and  jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France ;  it  is  not  jealous 
in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen ;  see  the  issue  of  his  search. 

[Exeunt  Evans,  Page  and  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better,  that  my  hus- 
band is  deceived  or  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in  when  your  husband 
asked  who  was  in  the  basket ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need  of  washing ;  so 
throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do  him  a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal ;  I  would  all  of  the 
same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  special  suspicion 
of  Falstaff's  being  here,  for  I  never  saw  him  so  gross  in  his 
jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  and  we  will  yet  have 
more  tricks  with  FalstafF ;  his  dissolute  disease  will  scarce  obey 
this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion,  mistress 
Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing  into  the  water;  and 
give  him  another  hope,  to  betray  him  to  another  punishment ! 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  doit;  let  him  be  sent  for  to-morrow,  eight 
o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him ;  may  be  the  knave  bragged  of  that 
he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heard  you  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ay,  ay,  peace :    You  use  me  well,  master  Ford,  do 

you? 

Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your  thoughts. 

Ford.  Amen. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Ay,  ay ;  I  must  bear  it. 

Eva.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in  the  chambers, 
and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses,  heaven  forgive  my  sins  at 
the  day  of  judgment ! 

Caius.  By  gar,  nor  I  too  :  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  fie,  master  Ford!   are  you  not  ashamed!    What 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  391 

spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination?  I  would  not  ha' 
your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the  wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.  'Tis  my  fault,  master  Page :  I  suffer  for  it. 

Eva.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience :  your  wife  is  as  honest  a 
'ornans  as  I  will  desires  among  five  thousand,  and  five  hundred 
too. 

Caius.  By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well, — I  promised  you  a  dinner.  Come,  come,  walk  in 
the  park:  I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  I  will  hereafter  make  known 
to  you  why  I  have  done  this.  Come,  wife  ;•  come,  mistress  Page ; 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS. 

CONTROVERSY  has  raged  about  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  as  about  his 
dramatic  works.  Published  in  1609,  they  were  dedicated  by  the  printer, 
Thomas  Thorpe,  to  Mr.  W.  H.,  as  "  the  Onlie  Begetter  of  these  insuing 
Sonnets."  It  has  been  guessed  that  this  means  William  Herbert, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Pembroke.  Though  some  critics  insist  that  these 
poems  are  a  personal  revelation,  the  fact  that  126  out  of  the  entire  154 
are  addressed  to  a  man  and  26  more  to  a  woman,  seems  to  indicate  that 
they  were  simply  poetical  exercises  of  an  exuberant  genius.  Alto, 
gether  they  constitute  an  amatory  correspondence  of  singular  beauty, 
but  are  as  free  from  autobiographical  declarations  as  any  of  the 
author's  dramas.  Shakespeare  rejected  the  strict  arrangement  of  the 
Italian  sonnet  and  used  a  simpler  form — three  quatrains  followed  by  a 
couplet. 

THE  POET  CONFERS  IMMORTALITY. 

WHO  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come, 

If  it  were  filled  with  your  most  high  deserts  ? 
Though  yet,  Heaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 

Which  hides  your  life  and  shows  not  half  your  parts. 
If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  eyes, 

And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  your  graces. 
The  age  to  come  would  say,  ' '  This  poet  lies  ; 

Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touched  earthly  faces." 
So  should  my  papers,  yellow' d  with  their  age, 

Be  scorn'd  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than  tongue, 
And  your  true  rights  be  term'd  a  poet's  rage 

And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song. 
But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time, 
You  should  live  twice :  in  it,  and  in  my  rhyme. 


392  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


THE  ETERNAL  SUMMER. 

SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 

Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate ; 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 

And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date. 
Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 

By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd. 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander 'st  in  his  shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  TRUE  LOVE. 

LET  those  who  are  in  favor  with  their  stars 

Of  public  honor  and  proud  titles  boast, 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  honors  bars, 

Unlook'd  for  joy  in  that  I  honor  most. 
Great  princes'  favorites  their  fair  leaves  spread 

But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye, 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 

For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 
The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 

After  a  thousand  victories  once  foil'd 
Is  from  the  book  of  honor  razed  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd. 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  beloved 
Where  I  may  not  remove  or  be  removed. 


BEN  JONSON. 

THE  foremost  of  the  Elizabethan  dram- 
atists, next  to  Shakespeare,  was  the  learned 
Ben  Jonson.  From  his  birth,  in  1573, 
to  his  first  success  as  a  play-writer,  in  1598,  not  much  is 
definitely  known,  except  that  he  was  of  Scotch  descent,  got 
his  schooling  at  Westminster  and  Cambridge,  and  did  'pren- 
tice work  for  his  stepfather — a  bricklayer.  This  he  left  for 
service  as  a  volunteer  with  the  army  in  the  Low  Countries. 
When  back  in  London  the  stage  was  Ben's  clear  destiny,  first 
as  one  of  the  actors,  but  soon  as  actor-author,  in  which  double 
capacity  Shakespeare  had  already  earned  fame  and  fortune. 
The  young  playwright  had  a  few  months'  experience  of  jail- 
life  for  having  killed  a  brother-actor  in  a  duel, — and  here  he 
became  a  Catholic.  His  earliest  comedy,  or  the  earliest  per- 
formed, was  played  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company,  and 
one  of  the  characters  was  acted  by  Shakespeare.  This  was 
"  Every  Man  in  his  Humor."  From  this  sprang  the  friend- 
ship, none  the  less  cordial  if  tinctured  with  envy  on  Jonson's 
side,  between  the  genial  rivals  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  To 
this  play  succeeded  sundry  patchwork  contributions  to  other 
men's  plays;  and  then  "Every  Man  Out  of  his  Humor," 
which  was  performed  in  the  presence  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  In 
1600  Jonson  sought  to  win  her  favor  by  a  a  skillful  piece  of 
flattery,  entitled  "  Cynthia's  Revels,"  in  which  certain  satirical 
passages  wounded  the  dignity  of  Dekker  and  Marston,  two  of 
his  associate  playwrights,  and  provoked  a  retort  from  the 
former.  Hearing  that  this  was  coming,  Jonson  hurried  the 
production  of  "The  Poetaster,"  ridiculing  the  pettiness  of 
the  versemakers.  Within  a  year  or  two  the  jibing  satirists 
were  friends  again,  collaborating  in  other  plays.  The  classical 

393 


394  LITERATURE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

tragedy  entitled  "Sejanus,  his  Fall,"  was  performed  in  1603, 
with  Shakespeare  in  one  of  the  parts. 

The  general  run  of  Jonson's  dramas  is  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  that  of  popularity  :  the  narrative  is  involved,  the 
wit  bright  and  pungent,  but  hammered  out  too  finely,  and  the 
dialogue  overlaid  with  pedantic  veneering.  The  intellectual 
strength  underneath  is  unmistakable.  His  more  serious 
plays  may  be  described  as  Dekker  describes  their  author: 
"  Large  of  frame,  bony,  meagre  of  flesh  (in  his  earlier  years), 
pockmarked,  and  with  eager  eyes  for  piercing  glances  and  for 
soaring  up  to  the  heights  of  poetry."  His  comedies,  includ- 
ing "Volpone,  or,  The  Fox;"  "  Epiccene,  or,  The  Silent 
Woman;"  "The  Alchemist;"  "  Bartholemew  Fair,"  and 
"The  Devil  is  an  Ass,"  were  written  prior  to  1616,  when  for 
ten  years  he  ceased  to  write  for  the  stage. 

The  death  of  Queen  Elizabeth  found  Jonson  turning  to 
the  concocting  of  masques  and  similar  entertainments,  which 
won  the  patronage  of  the  king  and  nobility,  in  whose  houses 
they  were  performed.  He  succeeded  better  as  poet  than  as 
dramatist.  Here  and  there  in  his  plays — especially  in  the 
tragedy,  "Catiline,  his  Conspiracy" — are  lyrics  of  the  true 
ring;  and  in  his  collections — "The  Forest"  and  "Under- 
woods"— are  many  examples  of  pure  poetry  in  various  meas- 
ures, on  varied  themes.  His  "Epigrams,"  too,  of  which  he 
•vas  tenderly  proud,  displayed  his  versatility  of  handiwork. 
In  1618  Jonson  tramped  from  London  to  Scotland,  where  he 
sojourned  with  congenial  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  whose 
recorded  ' '  Conversations ' '  give  a  vivid  picture  of  the  English- 
man. Despite  his  laureate  pension  Jonson  was  impecunious. 
He  says  his  plays  had  not  brought  him  two  hundred  pounds 
in  all.  So  in  1625  he  took  to  play-making  again,  without 
great  results.  On  the  failure  of  the  latest  comedy,  called  "  The 
New  Inn,"  Jonson  published  an  epilogue  protest  against  the 
neglect  on  the  part  of  the  King  and  Queen.  To  this  Charles 
I.  replied  with  the  annual  grant  of  ^100,  and  a  tierce  of 
Canary  wine,  which  long  continued  to  be  the  laureate's  per- 
quisite. His  latter  days  were  gladdened  by  the  homage  of 
all  lovers  of  literature.  Jonson  died  on  August  6,  1637,  in 
his  sixty-fourth  year. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  395 


SIR  EPICURE  MAMMON. 
SCENE. — Subtle  the  Alchemist's  House. 

Mammon.  Come  on,  sir.    Now  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  novo  orbe.     Here's  the  rich  Peru  : 
And  then  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines, 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir !     He  was  sailing  to  't 
Three  years,  but  we  have  reached  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day  wherein  to  all  my  friends 
I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Be  rich. 
This  day  you  shall  be  spectatissimi. 
You  shall  no  more  deal  with  the  hollow  die, 
Or  the  frail  card.     No  more  be  at  charge  of  keeping 
The  livery  punk  for  the  young  heir,  that  must 
Seal  at  all  hours  in  his  shirt.     No  more, 
If  he  deny,  ha'  him  beaten  to  't,  as  he  is 
That  brings  him  the  commodity.     No  more 
Shall  thirst  of  satin,  or  the  covetous  hunger 
Of  velvet  entrails  for  a  rude-spun  cloak 
To  be  displayed  at  Madam  Augusta's,  make 
The  sons  of  Sword  and  Hazard  fall  before 
The  golden  calf,  and  on  their  knees  whole  nights 
Commit  idolatry  with  wine  and  trumpets ; 
Or  go  a-feasting  after  drum  and  ensign ; 
No  more  of  this.     You  shall  start  up  young  viceroys, 
And  have  your  punques  and  punquetees,  my  Surly: 
And  unto  thee  I  speak  it  first,  Be  rich. 
Where  is  my  Subtle  there  ?  within  ho — 

Face  (within).  Sir,  he'll  come  to  you  by  and  by. 

Mam.  That's  his  fire-drake, 

His  I,ungs,  his  Zephyrus,  he  that  puffs  his  coals 
Till  he  firk  nature  up  in  her  own  centre. 
You  are  not  faithful,  sir.     This  night  I'll  change 
All  that  is  metal  in  thy  house  to  gold : 
And  early  in  the  morning  will  I  send 
To  all  the  plumbers  and  the  pewterers, 
And  buy  their  tin  and  lead  up  ;  and  to  Lothbury 
For  all  the  copper. 

Surly.  What,  and  turn  that  too  ? 


396  LITERATURE  OF  AT,!,  NATIONS. 

Mam.  Yes,  and  I'll  purchase  Devonshire  and  Cornwall, 
And  make  them  perfect  Indies !     You  admire  now  ? 

Sur.  No,  faith. 

Mam.  But  when  you  see  the  effects  of  the  great  medicine  ! 
Of  which  one  part  projected  on  a  hundred 
Of  Mercury,  or  Venus,  or  the  Moon, 
Shall  turn  it  to  as  many  of  the  Sun ; 
Nay,  to  a  thousand,  so  ad  infinitum  : 
You  will  believe  me. 

Sur.  Yes,  when  I  see  't,  I  will. 

Mam.  Ha !  why, 

Do  you  think  I  fable  with  you  ?    I  assure  you, 
•  He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  Sun, 
The  perfect  Ruby,  which  we  call  Elixir, 
Not  only  can  do  that,  but  by  its  virtue 
Can  confer  honor,  love,  respect,  long  life, 
Give  safety,  valor,  yea  and  victory, 
To  whom  he  will.     In  eight  and  twenty  days 
I'll  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a  child. 

Sur.  No  doubt ;  he's  that  already. 

Mam.  Nay,  I  mean, 

Restore  his  years,  renew  him  like  an  eagle, 
To  the  fifth  age ;  make  him  get  sons  and  daughters, 
Young  giants,  as  our  philosophers  have  done 
(The  ancient  patriarchs  afore  the  flood,) 
By  taking,  once  a-week,  on  a  knife's  point, 
The  quantity  of  a  grain  of  mustard  of  it, 
Become  stout  Marses  and  beget  young  Cupids. 

Sur.  The  decayed  vestals  of  Pickt-hatch  would  thank  you, 
That  keep  the  fire  alive  there. 

Mam.  'Tis  the  secret 
Of  nature  naturized  'gainst  all  infections, 
Cures  all  diseases,  coming  of  all  causes  ; 
A  month's  grief  in  a  day;  a  year's  in  twelve; 
And  of  what  age  soever,  in  a  month : 
Past  all  the  doses  of  your  drugging  doctors  ; 
I'll  undertake  withal  to  fright  the  plague 
Out  o'  the  kingdom  in  three  months. 

Sur.  And  I'll 

Be  bound  the  players  shall  sing  your  praises,  then, 
Without  their  poets. 

Mam.  Sir,  I'll  do  't.     Meantime, 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  397 

I'll  give  away  so  much  unto  my  man, 
Shall  serve  the  whole  city  with  preservative 
Weekly;  each  house  his  dose,  and  at  the  rate — 

Sur.  As  he  that  built  the  water-work  does  with  water  1 

Mam.  You  are  incredulous. 

Sur.  Faith,  I  have  humor. 
I  would  not  willingly  be  gulled.     Your  Stone 
Cannot  transmute  me. 

Mam.  Pertinax  Surly, 
Will  you  believe  antiquity  ?     Records  ? 
I'll  show  you  a  book,  where  Moses  and  his  sister, 
And  Solomon,  have  written  of  the  art ! 
Aye,  and  a  treatise  penned  by  Adam. 

Sur.  How? 

Mam.  Of  the  Philosopher's  Stone  and  in  High  Dutch. 

Sur.  Did  Adam  write,  sir,  in  High  Dutch  ? 

Mam.  He  did ; 
Which  proves  it  was  the  primitive  tongue. 

Sur.  What  paper  ? 

Mam.  Cedar-board. 

Sur.  O  that,  indeed,  they  say, 
Will  last  'gainst  worms. 

Mam.  'Tis  like  your  Irish  wood 

'Gainst  cobwebs.     I  have  a  piece  of  Jason's  fleece  too, 
Which  was  no  other  than  a  book  of  Alchemy, 
Writ  in  large  sheep-skin,  a  good  fat  ram-vellum. 
Such  was  Pythagoras'  Thigh,  Pandora's  Tub, 
And  all  that  fable  of  Medea's  charms, 
The  manner  of  our  work ;  the  bulls,  our  furnace, 
Still  breathing  fire :  our  Argent-vive,  the  Dragon : 
The  Dragon's  teeth,  Mercury  sublimate, 
That  keeps  the  whiteness,  hardness  and  the  biting : 
And  they  are  gathered  into  Jason's  helm, 
(Th'  Alembick,)  and  then  sowed  in  Mars  his  field, 
And  thence  sublimed  so  often,  till  they  are  fixed. 
Both  this,  the  Hesperian  Garden,  Cadmus'  Story, 
Jove's  Shower,  the  Boon  of  Midas,  Argus'  Eyes, 
Boccace  his  Demogorgon,  thousands  more, 
All  abstract  riddles  of  our  Stone. 


398  LITERATURE  OP  ALL  NATIONS. 


CAPTAIN  BOBADIL. 

WHILE  the  comedy  "Every  Man  in  His  Humor"  cannot  bear 
comparison  as  a  whole  with  those  of  Shakespeare,  yet  in  its  broad 
lines,  and  not  less  so  in  many  of  its  detailed  characterizations,  it  has  a 
power  and  incisiveness  which  few  have  equalled. 

Captain  Bobadil  is  a  strongly-drawn  type  of  gasconading  heroes 
who  are  their  own  trumpeters.  While  living  at  an  obscure  inn  he  is 
visited  by  Knowell,  whom  he  tries  to  make  his  dupe. 

Bobadil.  I  will  tell  you  sir,  by  the  way  of  private,  and  tinder 
seal,  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  live  here  obscure,  and  to  myself;  but 
were  I  known  to  her  majesty  and  the  lords  (observe  me),  I  would 
undertake,  upon  this  poor  head  and  life,  for  the  public  benefit  of 
the  state,  not  only  to  spare  the  entire  lives  of  her  subjects  in 
general,  but  to  save  the  one-half,  nay  three-parts  of  her  yearly 
charge  in  holding  war  and  against  what  enemy  soever.  And  how 
would  I  do  it,  think  you  ? 

KnowelL  Nay,  I  know  not,  nor  can  I  conceive. 

Bobadil.  Why,  thus,  sir.  I  would  select  nineteen  more,  to 
myself,  throughout  the  land ;  gentlemen  they  should  be  of  good 
spirit,  strong  and  able  constitution ;  I  would  choose  them  by  an 
instinct,  a  character  that  I  have :  and  I  would  teach  these  nine- 
teen the  special  rules — as  your  punto,  your  reverse,  your  stoccata, 
your  imbroccato,  your  passado,  your  montanto — till  they  could 
all  play  very  near,  or  altogether  as  well  as  myself.  This  done, 
say  the  enemy  were  forty  thousand  strong,  we  twenty  would 
come  into  the  field  the  tenth  of  March,  or  thereabouts ;  and  we 
would  challenge  twenty  of  the  enemy ;  they  could  not  in  their 
honor  refuse  us;  well,  we  would  kill  them;  challenge  twenty 
more,  kill  them  ;  twenty  more,  kill  them ;  twenty  more,  kill  them 
too;  and  thus  would  we  kill  every  man  his  twenty  a  day,  that's 
twenty  score;  twenty  score,  that's  two  hundred;  two  hundred  a 
day,  five  days  a  thousand ;  forty  thousand ;  forty  times  five,  five 
times  forty,  two  hundred  days  kills  them  all  up  by  computation. 
And  this  will  I  venture  my  poor  gentleman-like  carcass  to  per- 
form, provided  there  be  no  treason  practiced  upon  us,  by  fair  and 
discreet  manhood ;  that  is,  civilly  by  the  sword. 


BNGUSH   UTERATURB.  399 


ODE  TO  HIMSELF. 

ON  the  failure  of  his  comedy  "The  New  Inn,"  written  after  ten 
years'  abstention  from  stage  work,  and  first  acted  January  19,  1629, 
Jonson  penned  this  contemptuous  fling  at  the  vulgar  herd  who  could 
not  distinguish  between  acorns  and  wheat. 

Come,  leave  the  loathed  stage, 

And  the  more  loathsome  age ; 
Where  pride  and  impudence,  in  faction  knit, 

Usurp  the  chair  of  wit ! 
Inditing  and  arraigning  every  day 
Something  they  call  a  play. 

Let  their  fastidious,  vain 

Commission  of  the  brain 

Run  on  and  rage,  sweat,  censure,  and  condemn  ; 
They  were  not  made  for  thee,  less  thou  for  them. 

Say  that  thou  pour'st  them  wheat, 

And  they  will  acorns  eat  ; 
'Twere  simple  fury  still  thyself  to  waste 

On  such  as  have  no  taste ! 
To  offer  them  a  surfeit  of  pure  bread 
Whose  appetites  are  dead ! 

No,  give  them  grains  their  fill, 

Husks,  draff  to  drink  or  swill ; 
If  they  love  lees,  and  leave  the  lusty  wine, 
Envy  them  not,  their  palate's  with  the  swine. 

Leave  things  so  prostitute 

And  take  the  Alcaic  lute ; 
Or  thine  own  Horace,  or  Anacreon's  lyre ; 

Warm  thee  by  Pindar's  fire  ; 

And  though  thy  nerves  be  shrunk  and  blood  be  cold, 
Ere  years  have  made  thee  old, 

Strike  that  disdainful  heat, 

Throughout,  to  their  defeat, 
As  curious  fools,  and  envious  of  thy  strain, 
May  blushing  swear  no  palsy's  in  thy  brain. 

But  when  they  hear  thee  sing 
The  glories  of  thy  king, 


400  LITERATURE   OF  ALI,   NATIONS. 

His  zeal  to  God,  and  his  just  awe  o'er  men ; 

They  may,  blood-shaken  then, 
Feel  such  a  flesh-quake  to  possess  their  powers, 

As  they  shall  cry :  ' '  Like  ours 
In  sound  of  peace  or  wars, 
No  harp  e'er  hit  the  stars, 
In  tuning  forth  the  acts  of  his  sweet  reign, 
And  raising  Charles  his  chariot  'bove  his  Wain." 

To  CEUA. 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  did'st  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


INTERLIBRAUY  LO 

JAN  3  0  1969 


THREE  WEEKS  FROM. 
NON-f 


ANS 


Book  Slip-35OT-9.'62(D2218s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PN  6013  H31 1900  v.4 


L  005  720  204  6 


College 
Library 

PN 


mi 
1900 


.RARYFACILTY 


A    001109412     5 


